The Devil, You Say
by KidsNurse
Summary: BOOK ONE The psychology behind the HouseWilsonCuddy bond, as well as some attempt to make reason out of the events leading up to, but not including, No Reason. COMPLETE 06.28.06
1. Prelude: House at Home

**DISCLAIMER:** Only the imagination—and any errors—belong to me, more's the pity… .© mj falango 2006 feel free to rec/link/reprint/whatever, all of that nifty electronic stuff, but please give credit as well

PRELUDE: House at Home

Wilson remains on the couch and watches as House stands across the room and fights through the spasm, watches as he tries to bring his contorted features under control. So far, Wilson's been winning his own inner struggle not to go to him. But when House fails to smother a thick, involuntary groan, Wilson is by his side rapidly. Briskly, loudly, to be heard over the pain and growing panic, he says, "Sit down." House tries to protest, but can't pull in the air to form the words. Wilson gentles his voice, places his hands firmly on the trembling shoulders--he can feel the fine tremors of the muscles through House's t-shirt.

"Now… House…," he says quietly, slowly. "Sit." He pushes down lightly, and House collapses into the chair. His jaw is still working to gain control over the anguish on his face, control over the ugly sounds that the pain has pulled from him. Wilson doesn't look at that face; House's privacy is tantamount. He simply kneels by his friend and slips warm fingers around his wrist--House's pulse is well over 100.

Wilson's hands move to the cramped right thigh and, before House can protest or guard against the touch, he firmly kneads the wasted muscle. As he works, he says in a conversational tone, "Breathe, House. Breathing is good. In and out. Breathe." His voice has a soothing, sing-song quality as he repeats those words over and over.

He never looks up from his work on the thigh, but he feels it when the spasm finally ends. Again, his fingers go around House's wrist, and he counts out 64 strong beats per minute before he finally stands and looks directly at his friend.

House's eyes are boring into his. Those bright blue eyes, no longer so clouded with pain, are probing and defiant as they search Wilson's face for any hint of sadness or worry or--worse--pity. But Wilson, after so many years, is an expert on House. So the warm, clear brown eyes looking back at House reflect nothing but empathy. House glares into him for a few moments more. Then, satisfied, he sighs and allows his head to tilt back against the chair as Wilson reaches over and works the reclining mechanism. "Thanks," House says quietly, grudgingly, on an exhale.

"Wait'll my bill comes before you thank me. Good news is, I'm cheaper than Ingrid," Wilson grins wickedly and waggles his eyebrows at House, waiting for the biting comeback which will normalize things once more. But House is silent as he closes his eyes. "Can you rest?" asks Wilson. A solitary affirmative nod is the only answer, and his eyes are closed now. So Wilson allows himself the luxury of dropping the "I'm not worried; you're just a pain in the ass" posture. House doesn't see the sadness and worry now clearly etched on his friend's face as Wilson quietly takes the blanket from the couch, covers him, dims the lights, and sits back on the couch to watch over him. House is asleep.


	2. Chapter 1: Can't Sell What Ya Don't Have

CHAPTER ONE: Can't Sell What You Don't Have

Wilson is running. Although he doesn't remember even standing, he is running towards House's office with the controlled urgency normally reserved only for code situations. Chase's page had been cryptic--"_office now house_"--but it had immediately produced a feeling of dread in the pit of Wilson's stomach. And so he runs, some wordless, shapeless prayer swirling in his mind.

When he arrives at the office, he stops in the doorway. It's necessary; he's gotta compose himself, assess the situation, triage the patient. Wouldn't do for the doc to just add to the problem. Wouldn't do for the best friend to upset the patient. But Wilson is practiced at this, and inside of twenty seconds, he's seen all he needs to know. House is curled around himself on the floor, breathing raggedly and looking angry.

Chase and Cameron are kneeling at his side, while Foreman stands aloof, mild disgust curling his lip. Wilson takes a deep breath and strides into the room, going to stand over House. He knows it's bad, really bad--House would _never_ allow himself to collapse in front of the team if he'd had any say at all in the matter. He also knows that the best way to start is to feed the spark of House's anger. Chase and Cameron stand and step back, and the team gathers at the door, uncertain if they should stay, but waiting for an all-clear from Wilson before leaving.

Wilson doesn't kneel down, and when he speaks his voice is dry, a bit sarcastic. "Let me guess. The candy store was all out of your favorite little white Tic-Tacs this morning. Or did you just want to see if the carpeting was a good match for your eyes?" He stands over House, crosses his arms, and waits.

House looks up, snarling. "Get outta here, Wilson. All of you, out. Last I checked, the only name on that door was still mine." Okay, anger, good. Wilson could work with that. Now he kneels down at House's head and says, "So get up. This whole fetal position thingy is just a bit melodramatic, don'tcha think?" He prepares to help him up, hoping that House's anger will at least aid in propelling him to a chair. But House surprises him, and Wilson feels the first strong tendrils of real worry start to pull at him.

"I won't," defiantly. "I...can't," fear masked well by frustration, but Wilson catches both emotions. "When the pain creeps down, and I'm good and ready, I'll creep up. On my own time. _Without_ an audience." He glares at the team. "_Without_ help." He transfers his glare to Wilson. But he's overtaken by another spasm, and closes his eyes in resignation to ride it out. When he opens them again and gasps, "Which part of 'out' did you people not understand?" Wilson decides it's time for some tough love.

"I am not going anywhere until you're off this floor, House. So you might as well give. Talk to me. How long? How bad? How much Vicodin? And, for future reference, no, the carpet does not match your eyes." He waits patiently for answers to his questions, but when the only answer is those same eyes fixing him with what could only be called a death beam, he leans in a little closer and says firmly, "The truth, House. Now."

The intensity of House's anger takes even Wilson by surprise when House finally answers, pulling each word out of himself with immense effort. "The truth? You want the _truth_?" He laughs, a raw sound devoid of humor. "The truth is I'd sell my soul for just one week--, no, one _day--_ without pain. _I'd sell… my soul._"

At the door, Foreman scoffs, turns to Chase and observes, "Not even House can sell what he never had." Chase laughs; even Cameron's mouth quirks at the corners. Wilson looks up at the group, glaring his own version of a death beam at them, and says in a low, dangerously controlled voice, "You can all leave now. I've got it." They don't have to be told twice.

As soon as the team leaves, Wilson shuts and locks the door, draws the blinds. "They're gone," he says to House, but he doesn't return to his side. He goes to the bookshelf and busies himself removing a double row of medical texts. "Talk to me," he says. Although he is aware that House is practically biting through his lower lip to keep from crying out, Wilson knows it's vital to keep him in the moment, to keep him from being swept away on the riptide of pain.

House draws a ragged breath, tries to comply. "Is he right? Foreman?" he says to Wilson. But House answers his own question, even managing to make a small joke out of it. "Yeah, he'd know. Dr. Mandingo knows soul, huh, Wilson?" So House had heard the cruel remark. Wilson winces. But he's busy extracting a nondescript gray metal box from its hiding place on the bookshelf, so he misses the thoughtful, almost calculating look in House's eyes as House contemplates Foreman's statement.


	3. Chapter 2: House Is Down

CHAPTER TWO: House Is Down

This is gonna be touchy, and Wilson knows it. He'd known of the box and its contents for three months now. He knows the contents well; hell, he even has his own key to it, courtesy of Cuddy. When she'd handed him the key she'd made him responsible for ascertaining that the contents hadn't been utilized, and Wilson took the job very seriously.

For three months, at least once a week he'd sighed in relief when the cap on the surreptitiously marked morphine vial was still intact. He'd check the other supplies, relock the box and return it to its spot. House's own, private little crash cart. Only problem was, House didn't even suspect that Cuddy or Wilson knew. And now, there was no way around it. Would he be embarrassed? Defiant? Wilson settles wryly on enraged. Yeah, that's it. Enraged.

He's contemplating the best way to tell House that his secret, well,_ isn't,_ when House lets out a gasp, a hiss, a deep, guttural groan. And explaining to House how he knows about the box is no longer the priority. He moves back to House's side.

House is curled tightly again. Each breath hitches in his throat, there's a sheen of sweat covering his skin, but his eyes are open, and he sees the box in Wilson's hand. He searches Wilson's face suspiciously, defiantly awaiting the inevitable lecture. Wilson reads his mind. "No lecture today, buddy. Not this time. Maybe later." As he speaks, he's deftly popping the cap on the morphine, carefully drawing it up, trying not to see the hungry look in House's eyes, trying harder not to see the unremitting pain that's there too.

He gently untangles House's left arm from its tight curl at his chest, straightens it slowly, turns it to find the vein. House closes his eyes as Wilson ties the tourniquet, swabs the vein, inserts the needle. Wilson draws back slightly on the plunger, looking for the flash of blood that will confirm correct placement. He sees it, looks at his watch and begins the slow, careful administration of the medication.

When he's finished he stays there for two full minutes, fingers at House's wrist, eyes on his chest, monitoring his pulse and respirations. He's pleased with the numbers. He stands, takes his cellphone from his pocket, and reluctantly types in a text to Cuddy. Just three words, but she'd understand it and come as soon as she could, and he'll fill in the details when she arrives. He looks at the message, their agreed-upon code, and presses 'send'. "_House is down._"


	4. Chapter 3: House in Hell

CHAPTER THREE: House in Hell

House has been resting, more or less comfortably, for only ten minutes when he starts to groan again. But it's a different sound this time, and Wilson knows immediately what's happening and is glad that House is still curled on his side. Wilson holds his head while he retches and moans and finally brings up a small amount of bile. Wilson reaches into the gray box as soon as the retching stops and brings out the prefilled syringe of Compazine. He shakes his head and smiles to himself as he thinks how typical it is of his friend to cover every contingency.

An oncologist is used to having to cause pain to relieve symptoms, and Wilson is good at what he does. But the patient in front of him this time with the narcotic-induced nausea is House, so Wilson hesitates. He can't make himself cause his friend even this one sharp, stinging prick of brief pain if it can be avoided.

House himself makes the decision for him, though, when the desperate retching and gasping begin again almost immediately. Wilson quickly unfastens the belt, the jeans, lowering the fabric just enough to expose his hip. He's surprised when House grasps his wrist and shakes his head violently,_ no_. House whispers, eyes boring into Wilson's in an eloquent plea, "I need… the nausea. It's my… anchor… gotta have… an anchor."

He expects Wilson to understand, and Wilson does. But he only shakes his head sadly as he gently disengages House's fingers from their desperate cling at his wrist and administers the injection, steals the anchor. He tries not to see House's wince, tries not to feel the sense of betrayal radiating from him.

House doesn't go down quietly, but he does go down. He's too worn out to fight the med for long; Compazine has a strong sedative effect not even House can overcome, and he falls again into restorative sleep. Wilson looks toward the door when he hears a key turning the lock, and the look he gives Cuddy is so profoundly mournful that she has to glance away.

"I don't suppose you'd consider admitting him?" It's a question that she knows the answer to, but she has to ask it anyway, and isn't surprised when Wilson answers, "You suppose correctly." However, Cuddy is initially shocked, even angered, when Wilson continues, "I gave him the morphine; I'll get him through this." But she's a smart woman, and it takes her only moments to infer how very bad things must have been to drive Wilson to the gray box, and when she speaks again her voice is warm. "I understand. I'll try to free up a nurse."

Wilson answers flatly. "Then you don't understand. No nurse. No team. No one else." He looks tenderly at his sleeping friend, and there are bright unshed tears in his eyes when he turns back to Cuddy. "There's damned little else that I can do for him right now, but I _can_ respect his privacy." Cuddy comprehends immediately; this is House, and his fierce, odd dignity is the only thing that allows him to face the world every day.

Cuddy adopts Wilson's flat, inflectionless tone when she says, "Then you'll need some things. Give me a list." She grabs a pad and a pen from House's desk and waits for Wilson to gather his thoughts, to switch roles from protective friend to capable physician. She can see him mentally figuring how to cover all possible bases.

"First things first," he says. "A pillow, a blanket. Emesis basin. Ice chips. Scrubs; no gown, he'd hate that. Another dose of compazine. BP cuff, definitely. O2, I think." At Cuddy's alarmed expression, he says, "Just for comfort, Cuddy. I don't know how long we'll have to keep him under, won't know until the breakthrough pain stops. Just wanna be ready, you know?" He gives her a wan smile.

Then he glances at the box and says ruefully, "Should probably get a couple of bags of fluids and an IV setup as well. Our little boy scout was, of course, very well prepared for this. But he didn't factor in being dehydrated _before _he took the meds. And he _is_ dehydrated. Only brought up about 10cc of bile. I shouldn't wait on the IV, but I'm going to. It's not fair...no more pain…at least a little while..." His voice trails off. "Unless you can think of something else, I think that's it," he finally says.


	5. Chapter 4: Cuddy Lies

CHAPTER FOUR: Cuddy Lies

It takes Cuddy a while to gather everything and to make some phone calls. When she stops by Respiratory, she's relieved to find the department deserted. She slings the portable oxygen unit over her shoulder and on her way out grabs a disposable ambu bag from the cart. _Morphine depresses the respiratory rate; __just a precaution_, she tells herself.

She makes one more stop, the ER. She steps into the supply room and grabs a small flat package which she slips into her pocket. Then she heads for the elevator, lugging the large totebag that hides the contents of a small hospital room.

When she arrives at the office door, she's pleased to see that the recliner and linens she ordered from Maternity have already been delivered, and that a kitchen worker is coming towards her wheeling a cart containing an ice bucket and a large thermal coffee carafe.

When the woman reaches the door, Cuddy says briskly, "I'll take it from here, Clara, thanks. His mood is more wicked than usual, and he's already angry with me. A couple of all-nighters catching up on charts wasn't in his plans for this weekend." The woman smiles gratefully at her and leaves.

Cuddy unlocks the door and motions to Wilson. He joins her at the door, spies the recliner and looks at her questioningly. "Don't worry," she says. "The entire hospital's had their suspicions confirmed--I really_ am _the Evil Witch, locking poor Dr. House in his office until he gets every single one of his charts caught up." She draws herself up to her full officious-intimidating-administrator height, crosses her arms, and says sternly, "About three years' worth, I believe."

The grin on Wilson's face makes her happy, and she smiles back at him. But his smile fades quickly. "The kids, Cuddy. How the hell are we gonna keep his team out of here this weekend? Those three are the _last_ people he'd want to see him like this."

Cuddy looks uncomfortably at Wilson, but maintains eye contact as she says, "They have no case right now, so unless something comes up, they're off this weekend. And I told them the biggest, most effective lie I could come up with. As far as they know, House was simply indulging in some classic drug-seeking behavior this afternoon, and the charting's his penance." There was more, Wilson could tell.

"Cuddy, please. Those are three of the brightest medical minds in the country. Surely they didn't buy that?" Cuddy shifts nervously before speaking again. "Foreman was the quickest to buy it when I mentioned that House has been using morphine at least once a week, every weekend--"

"But that's not true!" Wilson interrupts angrily. Cuddy looks at him miserably. "I told you the lie was big," she almost whispers. "And Foreman got that insufferably smug look on his face and walked off like the cat who'd swallowed the canary. Chase and Cameron weren't as quick to believe me, until I mentioned that the reason you'd moved in with him was to keep him from killing himself with the stuff..."

She looks down, ready for Wilson to yell. But--just as quickly as she'd earlier deduced Wilson's reasons for administering the morphine--Wilson concludes that her reasons for the lie weren't that much different. They were both protecting House--from himself, from his pain, and from the world. So he says simply, "Thanks, Lisa."

Working together, they roll the recliner and kitchen cart into the office. House is, for the moment at least, feeling no pain, and after Cuddy gets the recliner made up and Wilson changes him into the soft, worn scrubs, it takes both of them to get him from the floor into bed. Wilson says idly, "He hates scrubs, ya know. Says they make him look like a doctor." House sleeps through the procedure, but as they're settling him he drowsily lifts both hands to his face in loose fists and rubs his eyes.

_Like a worn-out child_, Cuddy thinks, and that reminds her of the small package she's got in her pocket. She sees that House's lips are already cracked, checks the turgor of his skin and doesn't like it. "We need to get the fluids running," she says to Wilson.

"Just a while longer," he says, but the doctor in him knows they can't wait much more. Cuddy smiles and hands him the package. He takes it and studies it for a moment. "Cuddy, you're brilliant!" he says as he tears open the EMLA pack and places the small, skin-numbing patch designed for children over the vein he's already chosen for the IV.

"Don't know why," she says dryly, "but every time I think of House my pediatrics training kicks right in." They share another smile and then a companionable silence as they wait for the patch to take effect. When Wilson slides the cannula in, attaches a heplock, and starts the drip, House doesn't even stir.

A/N: _A heparin lock ("heplock") is a small plastic plug with a rubber tip, designed for the easy insertion and removal of needles from the IV site._


	6. Chapter 5: Wilson Cracks

CHAPTER FIVE: Wilson Cracks

Wilson scrubs a hand across his eyes and pours a third cup of coffee. The last four hours have been rough. House has had two more episodes of breakthrough pain. The first had occurred as Wilson was helping him the short distance to the bathroom. As the spasm began to build, Wilson was just able to maneuver him back to the recliner before House became swept up in the clenching pain.

As Wilson slowly pushed 10mg of morphine through the line, he'd kept up the usual soothing conversational patter, told House not to worry about it; they'd try the short trip again after the med had taken hold. Wilson would have bet a month's salary that nothing short of paralysis would induce House to agree to use a urinal, and a year's salary that House would never come up with the idea on his own—but he would have lost that bet.

As the spasm settled into quietude, House's eyes had lit on the urinal which was part of the admit kit Cuddy had procured. He'd drawled to Wilson, "How about we pretend that I'm a patient? You be a nice nurse and bring me that nifty little pee thingy over there."

Wilson had hidden his shock and had done as requested. _Excellent idea, really_, he reflects now. The scant amount of dark piss House had produced in the urinal, less than 100cc, was helpful—it had told Wilson that the rate on the IV fluids needed to be doubled. And _that_ is another worrisome thing; House has neither fought the urinal nor questioned the need for the IV. He hasn't even complained about the scrubs. He seems, Wilson reflects, resigned. _And that_, he thinks drolly, _is not our House._

The second ungodly spasm shouldn't have happened at all. House had managed to keep down some ice chips, so Wilson had reluctantly agreed to allow some juice. He smiles at the memory—he'd allowed House to badger him into it just because he'd been so relieved that House was conscious, thirsty, pain free—and badgering him again! Wilson had forgotten the pre-infarction House, and had been surprised to become reacquainted with that charming, persuasive man again. They'd both been transported back to that more innocent time, the time before Pain had become the detested third member of their long and storied history.

It causes him a hard twinge of loss as he thinks about it now, and he shakes away some dusty memories. _That man is dead_, Wilson thinks, _and it's best for us all to leave him buried_. But oh, those few minutes when House had been finagling the juice—his face had been young again; the pain-etched lines were gone, the blue eyes were clear and relaxed, his smile had been open and unguarded; even the timbre of his voice had been missing its usual undercurrent of sardonic anger.

They'd both reveled in those few good minutes—until Wilson had forgotten to be a physician instead of a naughty, conspiratorial best friend. He'd allowed House to wheedle a few ounces of fruit juice, and they'd both paid for it. It had looked like the juice was going to stay down, and House had closed his eyes to drift into the arms of Morpheus again. Wilson had just started to relax a bit himself when House, sleeping soundly, had begun to retch.

Wilson had grabbed the emesis basin and made it to him just in time to turn him to his side and catch all four ounces of juice in the basin. House had tried to make a joke of it, something about the effects of heavy drinking after abstaining for so long, but it fell pitifully flat when his stomach heaved in mid-sentence.

Wilson had held his head as he dry-heaved, and handed him a cool, moist cloth when it was over. The ordeal had worn House out, yes, but Wilson had thought that they were in the clear, and so he'd decided against even suggesting another dose of the hated Compazine. He'd found himself wondering if the anticipated nausea was ever a deterrent to House when he was contemplating an illicit dose of morphine. If it was, he'd decided, he was grateful.

_Just didn't have the heart to upset him again, you coward,_ he chides himself now. _So look where your kindness got him_. The episode of dry heaves had been followed in quick succession by two more, and just as Wilson had finally decided that Compazine was unavoidable, all those minutes of muscles violently contracting caught up with House as his leg jerked cruelly with a life of its own, and House had cried out to him through the retching and gasping and uncontrollable screams.

"Get the _hell_ out of here, Wilson!" he'd shouted. "Just leave me alone! Ya know what's pitiful, you _think_ you're helping me." Wilson, stunned, had stared at him as House had continued, his voice growing quiet, vicious, intense, "Yeah, I know, you're the saintly Dr. Compassion, and your patients eat that up. Well, I'm sure as hell _not_ your patient, and half the time I'm not even your _friend_. But no matter what I do, how badly I treat you, you're _always_ my friend, and that's just… _sad_. So do yourself a favor; you and your _compassion_"—he hissed the word like a curse—"go find someone who actually wants you around."

Throughout, Wilson had stood stock still, his eyes never wavering from House's, as House had continued to throw the bitter barbs. Wilson had never flinched. And then House had worn down, and was gasping, and his fevered eyes were still locked with Wilson's. Wilson had matched his quiet intensity, if not his anger, when he'd responded. "You're not my friend? Fine, I'll live with it. But I currently have a medical obligation to you which I intend to fulfill. So, while I know how dangerous it is to have to contradict the magnificent Dr. House, that does, indeed, make you _my patient_."

He'd finally looked away and turned to get the anti-emetic. He could feel House's eyes boring into his back, could hear the agitated, breathless respirations. "And one more thing, House," he'd said quietly, flatly. "It didn't work. I'm still here. Live with it." He'd heard House's half-sob, half-laugh, and spent rather more time than was strictly necessary preparing the already-prepared medication.

Despite the extra time that Wilson had given them both, tears had been leaking from House's tightly closed eyes as Wilson injected the dose into the IV line, but Wilson reflects now that that had been a good thing, because they had prevented his friend from seeing—and despising—Wilson's own tears.

As he finishes pushing the med, he realizes that House's respirations have remained uneven, disrhythmic, since their confrontation. And they're too shallow. Wilson brings the portable O2 canister to the bedside. "House," he says, all Dr. James Wilson, "we need for you to wear this now. Your respiratory status is compromised." There is no smile on his face, no kindness in his voice. He's just the doctor.

He simply stands at the bedside as House refuses and rails at him, further unsettling his breathing pattern. When House's angry voice finally trails off, Wilson matter-of-factly places the cannula in his patient's nose, adjusts the flow on the tank, and turns away from the bed. His back to House, he allows a touch of warmth to enter his voice, "It's just for a little while." Finally, he hears the erratic breathing smooth out into the sound of sleep.

House is back inside his warm, fuzzy cocoon, and Wilson is alone with his thoughts. It is not, he reflects, a comfortable place to be. _What the bloody hell did I think I was trying to do for him? If I'd believed him when he tried to tell me that the pain was getting worse…. No, I didn't stop and really listen to him; I just glibly diagnosed him with a conversion disorder. 'Course, for that brilliant deduction I wound up with a bruised shin. _The dark memory of House's face after he'd struck Wilson's leg with his cane causes Wilson to frown. There had been none of House's usual sardonic humor in that face, nor even anger—he'd just looked deeply frustrated.

_Yeah, you idiot. Of course he looked frustrated. It'd gotten so bad he was actually admitting_ _it to you. Has he ever done that before? House was finally starting to open up to you, just like you'd been begging him to, and you just shut him right back down. Good going. _He remembers the MRI; he'd sensed how frightened House was during the procedure—there was so much riding on it. The look in House's eyes had been too clear for even House to mask; he was frightened, and feeling pitifully vulnerable. So Wilson had leaned into the microphone and played God. And House had laughed in a way that Wilson had never seen, not before or since. _Made ya feel good to play God for him, so you thought your job was done in the compassion department that time. And when you got those films back, it was just perfectly all right to tell him casually, walking down a crowded hall, 'gee, sorry buddy, you're outta luck—not only are your nerves not regenerating, but your best friend thinks you're a nutcase too.' _

He winces at the memory of his unintended cruelty, and as he watches House sleep it becomes achingly clear; they've all been blind, they've all let House down—but no one more so than Wilson himself. That's why he hadn't hesitated to give House the morphine, Wilson knows now—House _needed_ it. He needed it medically at this point, to disrupt the awful, vicious signals his brain and his nerve endings were merrily tossing back and forth. And no one had seen it. _Except House, of course. And he's been trying to tell me for a long time. He only had to collapse in front of his entire team to get me to listen._


	7. Chapter 6: Distance

CHAPTER SIX: Distance

Cuddy pauses, key in hand, at the door to House's office when she hears Wilson's voice, and its tone startles her. He's really angry; she can't believe he'd speak to House like that right now. "You are a _fool_," he says. "You saw this coming; we _all_ saw this coming, but you were the only one who could have done something to prevent it! _You ass_." This last is hissed bitterly. Cuddy quickly works the lock.

When she enters, she's surprised. Wilson apparently hasn't heard her come in, and is continuing his castigations, his back to the door. But House is clearly not the subject of the stream of cruel words, as he's breathing evenly, asleep. She makes note that he's wearing a nasal cannula, and frowns, and then she returns her attention to Wilson. The rant is directed at himself. "Dr. Wilson?" she says, and when he turns to her raw anger is alive in his eyes.

"I shouldn't be doing this anymore," he says. "I've lost my objectivity and it cost him. I was so busy being his friend that I forgot to be his physician." He relates the incident with the fruit juice, leaving out House's meltdown, ending his story with the second 10mg dose of morphine he's just had to administer, "the dose that he wouldn't have needed if I hadn't agreed to the juice in the first place and then compounded the whole damned thing by hesitating on the anti-emetic! And he was _so_ damned agitated by the time it was over that he'd compromised his breathing. He wasn't happy about the O2, but I pulled rank, which of course overjoyed him…." He slams his hand down, hard, on House's desk.

Cuddy and Wilson turn in tandem towards House. The sharp noise hadn't disturbed him; the meds are doing their job and he sleeps peacefully. So Cuddy returns her gaze to Wilson. "Look, James. You're tired, you're stressed, you're…concerned. Get out of here for a few hours. Go home. Take a shower. Relax."

Wilson opens his mouth to protest, but she cuts him off. "Doctor's orders," she says sternly, then softens the words with a smile. "Look, all you need is a little distance. A few hours away from here, away from seeing him like this, and it'll be much easier to remember how annoying, how exasperating, how all-around _miserable_ he is."

Wilson is actually able to laugh at the vehemence of Cuddy's words. And he should check on House's damnable rat, Steve. He runs a tired hand through his hair, updates Cuddy on their patient's condition, and leaves the office quietly. He doesn't want to actually leave the hospital, but as he walks through the night-silenced halls he reminds himself that his cases have been transferred to others for now, and that he really is free to concentrate on the one patient who needs him most. And to that end, there's something he very much needs to do before he can head home.

As he drives to the address he's scribbled down, he considers Cuddy's words. "Go home," she'd said to him. Home. Most people hear that word and feel comfort. All he feels is a confusion that isn't rooted in the geography of a building. An old quotation floats through his head: '_Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in_.' Robert Frost, he thinks. And he knows that there's been only one place in his adult life that fully fits that description. _House, you're more of a friend to me than you realize—more of a friend than I've ever given you credit for._

As he arrives at his destination, he says aloud, "Okay, let's just get through this. Then, I can go home." He savors the word.


	8. Chapter 7: And Then There's the Truth

CHAPTER SEVEN: And Then There's the Truth

Foreman sits at the kitchen table, laptop open, medical journals scattered around him. He's so intent on the abstract he's studying on the screen that the first time the doorbell rings it doesn't register. It is, after all, past 3:00am—not the usual time to expect a visitor.

Wilson sees the light on in the kitchen, and can make out Foreman's silhouette at the table, so this time he leans on the bell. He's not certain that this visit is a good idea, but every time he remembers Foreman's joke and House's hurt, he becomes angry all over again. So he isn't leaving. Finally, the silhouette stands and comes to the door.

"Dr. Wilson?" Foreman says quizzically as he opens the door. "Is House all right?" The question surprises Wilson; when did Foreman give a damn about House?

"House is… fine." He remembers the cover story and says, "I stopped by his office just now when I left my patient, and I think we're up to, oh, seven brand new cuss words. Let's just say that those charts are posing a serious threat to his 'happy little camper' status."

Foreman directs Wilson to a seat at the table and, at his nod, pours him a cup of sludgy coffee. "So why _are_ you here?" A damned reasonable question, Foreman thinks.

"Were you aware that he heard you today… yesterday… I'm sorry, I'm tired. And I'm angry. Lemme try this again. House heard your observation about the state of his soul. Or lack thereof." Wilson raises his eyes from his cup and looks at Foreman.

"Good. I intended him to." Wilson is amazed, and even angrier, at the easy admission, but before he can say anything Foreman continues. "It's like this. House has Cuddy for his… umm… let's just call 'em control issues. She keeps him in line. He's like an eight year old boy, taking on the world and knowing it's safe because mama's gonna swoop right in and save him from himself. He's got Cameron 'cuz everyone, even the world's biggest bastard, needs to have _someone_ in their lives who thinks they're perfect. If all his problems were healed tomorrow, she wouldn't find him perfect anymore, but that's not gonna happen, so he's safe. Chase is his dog to kick. House's mind just never shuts down, and sometimes he's gotta blow off all that accumulated steam. Chase is the perfect target because he's smart enough not to get wounded and intimidated enough to sit there and take it."

Both men laugh, and Foreman continues. "And then there's you. You were the toughest to figure out. You incorporate _all_ of that, sure, but you give him something he can't get from anyone else. He can't scare you away, because deep down you're what all of us will never be—you're his _family_. The only source of unconditional love he has. So he can be himself with you, whoever that self happens to be at any given moment. Hell, man, you're the one who goes marching bravely out into the storm and looks him in the eye and holds a hand out to pull him back every time, even when the rest of us—including Cuddy-- are hunkered down praying for Hurricane House to blow over."

Wilson is listening, fascinated, as Foreman goes on, "And he knows that you'll forgive him, and respect him, and you'll be there even when you're pissed at him. He's tested it a million times, and I think even _he's_ beginning to realize he can't push you away. Because family never loses faith when the rest of the world does."

Wilson feels uncomfortable. All this praise after what his _lack_ of faith has put House through these last months. "Oh, I dunno," he says wearily, "sometimes even family has to be clunked over the head with the facts before they'll start believing."

Foreman laughs. "Sometimes _especially_ family has to be clunked over the head. But once you finally get 'em on board with you, they're there for you all the way. If House didn't have you in his life, the rest of us would suffer big time," he smiles and rolls his eyes, "But House, he'd be lost. You're his anchor, ya know?"

'_Gotta have an anchor,' House had said._

Wilson remembers House's one-sided fight with him earlier, and looks at Foreman, awed. This brilliant young man he barely knows has managed to put into words something that Wilson's been trying to understand for years. "Where do you fit in?" he asks Foreman curiously, sincerely interested in these unexpected insights.

"Right here," Foreman says, swiveling the laptop so Wilson can see the screen. The abstract covers a new study on chronic pain and the role of neurotransmitters. "I keep up with all this stuff, and when I see something that could help House, I research it until I find the flaw. So far, they all have flaws…." He sighs.

"But nothing is gonna help him if he's not here," Foreman continues. "So I try to keep him angry, fighting. As long as he feels he has to keep _proving_ that the pain is real, it gives his pain a purpose. And everything with House has to have a purpose. If there's conflict involved, so much the better for the old bastard. So I challenge him on the pain at every opportunity. When he's starting to wallow in it, I _create_ the opportunity so he can give the friggin' pain back its purpose. Otherwise he'd drown in it. He'd let it pull him under." Foreman meets and holds Wilson's eyes. "He'd kill himself," he states.

Wilson exhales. He's never allowed himself to voice that thought, but instinctively he knows it's true. He's always known it's true, he realizes, and a part of him has always expected it to happen. He shakes his head, clearing away the thought—but not the feeling.

Foreman continues, "Do you remember that repeat MRI he had you do on his leg a few months back?" Wilson nods. "He wanted so badly for you to be right, that the nerves were regenerating. But he wanted even more for you to believe in the existence of his pain. He was a real bastard for a week after that MRI."

Wilson smiles. "I remember. He just stalked past me every time we'd run into each other. He wouldn't even speak. It was so peaceful…."

Foreman laughs. "And now, if it's ok with you, I've got one more study I've gotta go over. And you look like you could use some sleep. I take it you wanna keep this little meeting private." At Wilson's grateful nod, he says, "Not a problem. Better for both of us. Wouldn't want House thinking I give a damn."

Wilson stands up and offers Foreman his hand. "Thanks, Foreman," he says as he heads to the door. "It's been an illuminating conversation."


	9. Chapter 8: Please Push Back

CHAPTER EIGHT: Please Push Back

House struggles up through layers of drugged sleep. It's so peaceful down here, like lying on the bottom of the ocean. Everything is muffled; nothing hurts. But hands are relentlessly pulling him up, making him rise and kick and fight his way to consciousness. And as he rises, so does the pain. He groans and tries to turn his head away from it; a hand moves soothingly across his forehead. Not quite strong enough yet to open his eyes, but aware that something's different; he needs to figure it out. Ahh, _that's_ it! He smiles.

"Jimmy, you've got _girly_ hands, didja know that?" He can finally open his eyes, and when he does he finds himself looking into the oddly concerned face of Lisa Cuddy, arch nemesis. "Whoa! Where's Wilson, and why aren't you yelling at me, or hitting me with your broom, or—or--something?"

Cuddy removes the blood pressure cuff from his arm and readjusts the IV line. _So that's the way he wants to play it_, she thinks. _Okay, I can do this._ "Just a real pleasure to see you too, House," she responds. "I'm just fine; thanks for asking."

"Where's Wilson?" he repeats, and she knows him well enough to see the faint panic he's trying to hide.

"It's okay, House. He'll be back soon. He had to go back to your place; said something about taking care of your rat, and please, spare me the details. I'm just here because no one else can stand you when you're like this, and, well, that's why they pay me the big bucks," she says, her tone appropriately martyred. "And by the way, since you _so_ politely inquired after my well-being, allow me to return the courtesy. How are you?"

House frowns thoughtfully, taking mental inventory. "My mouth is dry," he finally says. "And?" Cuddy prompts, rolling her eyes because he'll expect it. "My mouth. _Is dry_." She reaches for the cup of ice chips, and this time her eye roll is real.

"So you finally got me where you want me, huh?" House leers at her, but the effect is ruined when, mid-leer, his eyes close of their own accord and the siren song of that cool, dark, muffled place is too strong. He allows himself to be pulled back down.

Cuddy smiles fondly down at the world's oldest pediatric patient and finishes getting the vital signs. She allows herself to smooth his pillow, stroke his forehead. She wants so badly to give him comfort, and knows he'll accept it only while he's sleeping. He seems to be stable, although he's winced and cried out sharply several times in his sleep in the last hour.

She'd hoped that the breakthrough pain was over, that it was safe to start returning him to reality. But she knows that was just wishful thinking; a pain cycle like this one could take another twenty four hours to break. _Or more_, she thinks grimly. _A lot more_.

"Damn you, House," she whispers. "Just get better. I _know_ it hurts like hell, and I _know_ you're tired of it. But see, this isn't how we're supposed to be playing the game. I'm supposed to push you to be your best, and you're supposed to push back and make me wish I were a waitress at some rundown truck stop. But you aren't pushing. And damned if I'd ever admit this when you're listening, but it's just not any fun when you're not playing too. And Wilson, well he's just lost, that's all. You should see him; this is tearing him up. He's doubting himself now, and I don't want that for him; you live with self-loathing every day, and look what it's done for you. You're not selfish, House, I'm not fooled. _You_ don't want that for him either. So come back soon and fix everything so that a month from now I'll be wondering why the hell I ever wanted you back to… your own twisted version of normal."

Her eyes are suspiciously bright as she turns to jot down the vitals, but she won't cry, damn it, because that would be acknowledging that they're losing him. Slowly, yes, and not this time, but someday soon, she's afraid that his pain will finally be stronger than he is.


	10. Chapter 9: Mood Music

CHAPTER NINE: Mood Music

Wilson is so tired as he unlocks the door to the apartment. Had he not felt a ridiculous obligation to House's ridiculous rat, he'd just collapse on the couch for a couple of hours and forget everything. But the rat needs to eat. And drink. Do rats need socialization as well? Wilson can't remember, considers singing a chorus of "Three Blind Mice" to Steve, just in case. "If House were here, he could play you 'Ben' on the piano," he tells Steve as he settles into the couch.

He closes his eyes, but he's overtired, and sleep eludes his desperate, weary grasp. So he imagines that House is here, at the piano. Wilson hasn't heard him play much since the infarct, but he remembers the beauty of the music, the real joy House used to take in running his fingers effortlessly over the keys. He thinks he knows why House so jealously guards his talent now—his music is the sole thing he has in his life that's not stained; it's completely untouched by the consequences of the infarction. It's the only thing left that's effortless. So it's pure and clean and real; it doesn't _cause_ pain--it releases it.

Wilson muses that it's as if House saves up all the true emotions he has, and pours them all into the piano where they'll be protected. Wilson listens to the phantom sound of House's fingers on the keys, listens to his friend pour his humanity into the piano. And he allows the music to lull him to sleep.

---

House is having a lovely dream. He's swimming in a bright, peaceful ocean. The water is warm, and it cradles his body as he glides effortlessly along in its depths. His legs are strong and healthy; they carry him swiftly. He knows this is a dream, but he's reveling in all the sensations. His body belongs to him again, and not to Pain. _Hmm_…. he thinks, _there's even musical accompaniment. Für Elise. Wait—that's not a piano playing; it's… it's… c'mon brain, function; you know that sound. It's electronic, annoying. Just listen, House, it'll come to you. _

The music stops as soon as Cuddy starts talking. _Ah… that's it! A cellphone. Who the hell would have a synthesized version of Für Elise as their ringtone? Cuddy. Figures. Well, I'm awake now, thankyouverymuch, so I may as well eavesdrop._

"No, you didn't wake me. As a matter of fact, I'm in the building." pause "Standing guard over the esteemed Dr. Gregory House. He owes me five more charts before I'll let him have a ten minute nap." pause martyred sigh "Yeah, I drew the short straw." pause pause pause "No one else can sign it? It has to be signed _now_?" pause pause "I'll be there. I can't be gone long, this slug is falling asleep as it is. Coming." click

_Very funny, Cuddy. Now get outta here so I can open my eyes. And what was that about me doing charts? I'm the one who's supposed to be dreaming here._

Cuddy doesn't want to leave, not even for the five minutes it'll take. This is House, after all, and she knows the man could upset a High Mass, given a free 30 seconds. But she really doesn't have a choice, so, like a mother anxiously child-proofing a house (_which is exactly what I'm doing_, she smiles, _I'm child-proofing a House) _she tries to anticipate the things a stoned House could do, given an entire 300 unsupervised seconds.

The possibilities are mind-boggling, and she finally sighs in anticipatory exasperation, disconnects the IV from the heplock, makes sure he can reach the ice chips, the urinal—but _not_ his cane. She gently removes the O2 cannula and shuts off the flow. One more look at the patient—eyes closed, breathing regular—"Please, House, be a good boy while I'm gone. I've got a very grumpy judge down there waiting to sign off on an involuntary commitment order, and if you don't behave, I'll ask him for a group rate. It's just five minutes, stay asleep," and she's gone.

House opens his eyes and waits. He'd heard Cuddy lock the door as she left, and wonders briefly if he needs to get up, unlock it. Nah, shouldn't be necessary. And before he can even finish the thought, the door opens and his visitor enters. "What took you so long?" asks House.

**A/N:** _For you wee ones out there too young to remember, "Ben" is a truly lovely song about a rat, from a movie of the same name, which told the story of a boy named Willard, who was—ahh, nevermind….Gawd, I feel old…_


	11. Chapter 10: It's A Deal

**A/N: **_Please, bear with me on this chapter, and the next (which will be posted early this evening). They fit, they have a purpose, I haven't crossed over into the realm of the paranormal. Hey, if you can get through detaching eyeballs and exploding privates, this'll be a piece of cake! And tomorrow, we'll be back on track, and it'll all fit, ok?_

CHAPTER TEN: A Deal

"What the _hell_ took you so long?" House demands again. _Poor choice of words, House_, he chides himself, not without amusement.

"Human beings are such tiresome, impatient creatures," House's visitor says as he enters the room and perches on the edge of House's desk. He's well dressed, House notes, and his face is surprisingly pleasant.

"Yeah, I don't like 'em either. Can't live with 'em, can't earn a paycheck without 'em. It's a quandary," says House, his eyes fixed on the visitor's cane. _What the hell—I'm asking for help from some idiot who can't even solve his own mobility issues!_

The visitor laughs and twirls the cane absently in his fingers. "So you choose not to recognize your status as a member of the human race? Quite… forward thinking of you, I must say." He notices that House is still staring, and waves his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about this," he says, continuing to spin the thing like a baton. "Just for looks, in my case. So elegant, wouldn't you agree?"

"Look, I probably don't have long 'til the Evil Witch returns to make my life a living hell—oops, sorry, slip of the tongue. So could we just get down to business? Here's the deal: I give you my soul, you give me a day without pain. Win/win situation all around." _Except that Foreman's right; I'm soulless, so I'm not losing anything except a day of hellacious pain. Wow, there's that 'h' word again; I'm just having a devil of a time with this!_

House's guest laughs again, a bit less pleasantly than the first time. "Dr. House, _I_ will tell _you_ what the deal will be. You are certainly free to decline it, if it is not to your liking; however, I do not bargain. I believe the expression is 'take it or leave it'."

_Okay, back off, House. This is not some intern you can send flying to the restroom in tears just by lifting a critical eyebrow. Although that is fun_. House smiles and apologizes, realizing that the visitor holds a potential day of heaven in his hands. _Stop with the bad wordplay, already! _he chastises himself. "I'm listening," he says.

"You, Dr. House, are an enigma; therefore, you intrigue me. Surely you can relate to that? You are the lover of puzzles, the hater of people, and yet you are the biggest puzzle of all. You would willingly part with your soul for a mere 24 hours of physical comfort. You are then willing to spend the remainder of your mortal life without all the elements which make up a soul? Emotions? Empathy? Love?"

House listens, his face expressionless. When the visitor realizes that House doesn't intend to answer, he continues more emphatically. "Do you realize that you will no longer be able to feel the satisfaction which your work brings you? You'll have no need for friends. Joy will be a feeling denied to you. You shall be a mere shell of a man, going through the motions of mortal life. Your physical pain will have returned, but you will have no ability to seek or receive comfort from others. Most humans in such a state would prefer, would even seek out, death."

_You insufferable fool_, House thinks. _You've just described my life. You did a damned good job of it ,too. How can I lose what I don't have?_

"Sign me up," House states flatly.

His guest looks at him appraisingly, almost admiringly. "All right, doctor. You have your 24 hours. However, I too am bound by a few rules. They are very simple, but I must obey them. Therefore, I am celestially obligated to inform you that should anything transpire during that period which would cause me to believe that you have not made this decision freely, or that you had no right to make this decision, then I must consider our contract breached. Should that occur, all will immediately revert to as it was before. If all goes well, at the end of the 24 hours you will transfer your soul to me, and I shall return your pain to you. Is that clear?"

"Yeah. Now where's my prize?"

"You will be able to walk, without pain, as of now." The visitor laughs. "I am curious, though, why did you not ask for your leg to be healed for the 24 hours; the price is the same. You have only one soul, and you traded it for the removal of pain only; you allowed the disability to remain. Odd, no?" He reaches across the desk, hands House his cane. Then, with a final twirl of his own cane, he's gone.

House feels good. _Really_ good. For the first time in six years nothing hurts at all. It's unnerving, and he continues to lie there, trying to adjust to the feeling. _What are you doing_, _you fool, you're on the clock here! _He decides to stand, glad that Cuddy had the foresight to disconnect him from the drip. _Cuddy! I gotta get outta here. I'm not ready to explain this to anyone, and if I were my first choice would not be Cuddy. Damn the woman, somehow she always knows to ask precisely the questions that make me wanna beg for my Miranda Rights. How _does_ she do that, anyway? _For the briefest of moments, a smile that could almost be called 'affectionate' flashes across his features.

House reaches for a piece of paper and a pen. _Wilson_, he scribbles, _I did something you'd call stupid, but it's working for me, so you'll just have to deal with it. I'm fine—I'm better than fine. What's that sound? Ahh… I can hear you worrying, Jimmy. So just stop that, and be happy for me. _He signs it with a scrawled _H_ and he's ready to go exploring.

He takes a few tentative steps and feels like the proud parent of a newly ambulatory toddler when his right leg behaves itself, the nerve endings remaining wonderfully quiescent. He doesn't really mind the cane, he realizes. It's been part of him for so long that it's nothing more than an extension of his leg. He bravely wanders out into the hall; it's 4:30 in the morning and the offices are deserted. He walks the length of the hall, doing his shiny new version of a stride, and he's having difficulty finding words to describe the unreal feeling of a pain-free leg, a body that finally belongs to him again.


	12. Chapter 11: No Pain

CHAPTER ELEVEN: No Pain

House strides the hospital halls. He's trying to hide the childish grin that keeps popping up; he's _House_, after all, and doesn't want to startle anyone by actually looking _happy_. But he's beginning to think it won't be much of a problem; the place seems oddly deserted, even for this hour. Not that he minds much, but it might be nice if someone who cares (_Jimmy_, he thinks. _Maybe even Cuddy.) _could share this with him. _Won't be able to share after this, might as well get used to it._ He's surprised that a sad regret pulls at him, makes himself dismiss it quickly.

He's had enough time to try to figure out how all this feels, and he knows he'd never be able to describe it to anyone who has the luxury of walking without pain every day. Why would those people care, anyway? But it's euphoria, plain and simple. Better than any drug-induced high he's ever known, better by far than the fastest, most reckless motorcycle ride he's ever taken. He knows both feet (and their brother, Cane) are touching the ground as he strides—strides!—toward an exit in the hospital, but it doesn't _feel_ the way he dimly remembers it feeling, more than six years ago, when he was last able to file 'ambulation' on his list of Effortless Activities.

His feet feel weightless; his legs are simply a mechanism to move those feet from point A to point B. They simply have a job to do, and like good employees, they are doing it well, and without complaint. The right leg has gone from being Vogler in the boardroom to Kevin (_or was it Carl_) in the mailroom—from the deliverer of all things wrong and miserable to the deliverer of the ordinary and mundane. Yeah, House was aware that, soon enough, it wouldn't seem wondrously "abnormal" to feel "normal". Kinda like Foreman's near-death experience; the wonder of being alive would quickly be replaced with accepting that things are _supposed _to be this way. Even for only 24 hours.

He's planning out his day as he walks the fog-shrouded predawn grounds of PPTH. Nothing spectacular; just a long list of things he hasn't been able to do pain-free since the infarction. Ordinary things, made all the more extraordinary because _he_ could have them now, albeit for just one day. Standing at the sink brushing his teeth; not having to grip the edge of the counter in the middle of the process. Moving about the kitchen preparing a meal; not having to sit down in a chair every few minutes as he works. Filling the car on his own at the gas station; not having to wait for the attendant because his leg protests at all that twisting and pivoting. Walking thoughtlessly across the room to retrieve the TV remote from the piano, instead of having to decide to just deal with the boring show, simply to avoid the discomfort the simple walk will cause. He's even planning on going to the grocery store and stocking up; with the cart standing in for his cane, and not having to deal with the leg, he figures that it'll be the first time in close to seven years that he can shop as quickly as everyone else, as he won't be stuck in the soup aisle, gripping the cart handle with white hands, pretending to debate the merits of minestrone versus lentil while he waits for the spasm to pass.

And the best one of all—that shower in the morning, standing there allowing the hot water to run out only because a hot shower feels good, not because he's gripping the grab bar for dear life as the heat from the water is sucked out greedily by his right thigh, trying in vain for just one moment's comfort.Only the million and one dumb things like that, things that are always on his mind as he struggles through his day, angry with the rest of the world, because these things are thoughtless for them, as natural as breathing. But for now, he's content to simply walk in the air and the mist, watching as the sun rises.

_What's a soul, anyway? _he thinks. _If I ever had one, they must've removed it when they stole my thigh muscle…._


	13. Chapter 12: A Talk, A Prayer, A Promise

**A/N:**_ I know this is short--another chapter this evening!_

CHAPTER TWELVE: A Talk, A Prayer, A Promise

Dr. James Wilson, MD is anxious to return to his patient's bedside; Jimmy Wilson just needs to see his friend. _You two'd better get your act together, _he muses ruefully. _House needs both of us in full, functioning order. You, Doctor, are not his friend; James, you're not his physician. Could you guys kindly pull your acts together? _"Great, just ducky," he says as he exits his car. "Now I'm not just talking to myself, I'm talking to _two_ selves, and I'm expecting them both to answer." He hears House in his mind: '_Two Wilsons? Wow, Jimmy, how cool is that?' _He visualizes the sly grin. "Shut up, House," he says aloud, and enters the hospital.

There's no one in the chapel when he arrives, which is a good thing. He couldn't explain even to himself just exactly why he'd felt pulled here. He sits down and starts talking. "I'm not sure what I'm doing here. But since You seem to be calling me, I figured I'd be on the safe side and come on in. Don't tell House, though; he says it's fine for us to talk to You, but when You talk to us, well, that's something else entirely. He's a good guy, God. I know it doesn't seem like it sometimes... well, okay, _most_ of the time. But he's hurting. I don't mean just the leg. His heart... it hurts, I think, sometimes worse than his leg." He recalls the day Vogler had forced Wilson to resign. He'd been packing up his office, and House had entered. Their talk had been painful, almost adversarial. He'd told House that all he had was the job he'd just lost, "and this stupid, screwed-up friendship," and the look on House's face had broken Wilson's own heart.

"Remember him before? Yeah, I know, he was never a warm, cuddly, in-touch-with-his-emotions kinda guy. But... he _cared_, back then. He was able to see outside of himself. People weren't just diagnoses to solve; they were human beings who needed the help he was willing to give. He still offers the help, but only because once you hand him a puzzle, he has to solve it. The sad part is, he doesn't _want_ to be this way. Watch his eyes; they give it all away, what he's really feeling. That worn out cliché about the eyes being windows to the soul? House personifies that. The only place he feels safe exposing his soul is through his eyes. So I'm asking, for him, please--save him from himself. Give him back to us; we'll try not to let him down. Again. You have my promise." He looks around uncomfortably, clears his throat, whispers "amen."

---

The sun's just come up. It's Saturday morning, and House has already enjoyed a couple of pain-free hours. He figures that Wilson's already returned to the office, gotten the note, and is seething. House wants to go home, though, and he needs his keys. He figures he can chance a quick visit back to the office to retrieve them and be on his way. 

He's at his office door when he feels it. Just a twinge of pain in his right thigh. He frowns down at his leg, shrugs, and enters. There it is again, but a stronger twinge this time. And something else is wrong—his note's right where he left it. He picks it up; still just his handwriting on the paper, no answering rant from Wilson. He can't believe that neither Cuddy nor Wilson has been back yet. It takes him only a moment to sense that, although neither Wilson nor Cuddy are here, he's not alone. And in that same moment, his thigh grips in a spasm that has him on the floor clawing desperately at his leg.

"Such a shame." The newly familiar voice makes him look up quickly. His visitor is standing over him, shaking his head. "Yours would have been a prized soul in my collection, Dr. House. I, however, am a man of my word, and a rule has been broken; the contract has been breached and is now—as I am sure your leg is telling you—null." He turns to leave.

"Wait!" House manages to croak out. "What rule? How… who…?"

The visitor keeps walking. "Someone _prayed_ for your soul," he says with revulsion, and is gone.

---

Cuddy stands outside House's office door and looks proudly at her watch. Four minutes and 43 seconds. She hears footsteps, and smiles as Wilson approaches. He looks a bit better this morning, she thinks. There's a sense of peace about him which was definitely missing when she'd sent him out of here. "Did you get any rest?" she asks. 

"Cuddy? What are you doing out here? Where's House?"

"Sleeping soundly, as of five minutes ago. I was even able to discontinue the oxygen when I left." She explains to him what had happened, and—just as Wilson is laughing at her "childproofing a House" line—they hear the sounds of a man in exquisite agony.


	14. Chapter 13: What the Hell?

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: What the Hell?

Wilson fumbles to open the door, realizes it's locked, and turns helplessly to Cuddy. Her hands are shaking, but she manages, finally, to get the key in the lock and push open the door.

House is on the floor, eyes wild, groaning; his white hands have a vice grip around his thigh. They rush to his side; there's no recognition of either of them in his eyes. Wilson, trying to straighten out the tangle of his body so they can assess him, sees the note in his hand and pries it loose. He scans it quickly-- _I did something you'd call stupid--_, wordlessly hands it to Cuddy as he kneels and takes House's face in his hands, trying to force him to make eye contact. "House! What did you take? Look at me, Greg. _What did you take?_"

His voice is so forceful, his use of House's first name so rare, that House's attention is caught, even through the pain. _Wilson looks scared_, he thinks. _What the hell is up with that?_ "Nothing," he says. Wilson gives him a rough shake. "Really… nothing," he gasps out the denial as forcefully as he can manage. He tries to get a hand down to massage his thigh, but Wilson, eyes full of panic, is preventing him from moving.

"House! This is _not_ a joke! Tell me what you took; I'm trying to help—"

"Nothing," Cuddy interrupts him, overwhelming relief evident in her voice. "I've just finished checking; it's all here. Not even a Vicodin missing." She tries to laugh, but the fear is still too fresh, and finally she sighs and sinks down into a chair.

"Are you certain? He couldn't have gotten something else?" Wilson wants to believe her. Although House is clearly in unspeakable pain, he doesn't appear overdosed, or even high; but if he'd taken something in the five minutes that Cuddy was gone, it might not be evident yet, and they could still help him.

"James, I'm certain," she says, trying to calm Wilson. "I was gone less than five minutes, he can't exactly run the 100 yard dash even on his good days, and the door was still locked when I returned, remember? All the meds are intact. He must have just had time to write the note, and then he fell, or passed out…." Her voice trails off; there was still the matter of the note.

"People…." House moans. "I could use a little help here." He tries a crooked grin, settles for not screaming aloud. Then he's lost to the pain again, quits even trying to focus on what's going on around him.

"Let's get some morphine and Compazine into him before we try to move him," Wilson says to Cuddy. Although he's finally let loose his grip on House's head, he hasn't removed his hand from House's shoulder, nor his eyes from House's face.

Cuddy rises to prepare the meds. "I'll call for a transport team too," she says, avoiding looking at Wilson. "I'm admitting him. He's suicidal, and it'd be irresponsible and just plain dangerous not to put him under supervised care."

She waits for Wilson to object, is relieved when he simply stands and gathers the IV fluids and the BP cuff. He reconnects the line and gets a set of vitals, then watches carefully while she injects the meds into the port. He leans down, says something quietly to House, to which House, eyes puzzled, responds with a vehement shake of his head, _no_. He gently replaces the O2 cannula in House's nose, and then turns to Cuddy. "I think we can get him back to bed now," he says.

Cuddy's eyes widen; had Wilson even heard her? "I think it would be wiser to let the transport team move him, James," she says kindly. "That way we'll only be putting him through the discomfort once."

Wilson finally leaves House's side. He walks across the room, motioning for Cuddy to join him. "Lisa," he says, voice low, "I asked him if he wanted to kill himself. He said no, and seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. I believe him. Please. Let's get him settled, comfortable, let him rest a bit. Then we'll talk to him. If you think he's in any danger at all, you won't get an argument from me. I'll make the call myself, as a matter of fact. But I think there's something else going on with that note, and I want to give him a chance to explain."

He sees the doubt, the hesitation on Cuddy's face. "Listen, I know there are several very good medical reasons to admit him. But I can think of a hundred psychological reasons why that would be the worst thing for him. And if you're honest with yourself, you'll know that's true." Cuddy is still glaring at him. "This is _House_, Cuddy! Do you really think I'd do anything that might endanger his health?"

Cuddy finally lets her face relax, unclenches her hands, takes a breath. "All right, then," she says briskly. "Let's wait another ten minutes for the meds to kick in, then we'll get this man back to bed."

Wilson thanks her silently, and she squeezes his arm, tries to give him an encouraging smile. Then they return to their patient.


	15. Chapter 14: Questions and Answers

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Questions and Answers

Cuddy and Wilson watch House—and he watches them. He's trying to fight off the effects of the meds Cuddy's just administered; he wants to know what's just happened, why they're so upset. But every time he manages to formulate a coherent question, one or the other of them shushes him, saying they'll talk later, when he's comfortable again. He wants to talk _now_, and Wilson is unhappily aware that he's becoming even more agitated.

"House, don't fight it so hard. Just go with it." House glares at him, but Wilson notes that his eyelids are at half-mast. "It's okay, pal. We're right here, and we'll still be here when you wake up. Just take a little rest, let the morphine do its job; we won't leave, we can talk later, everything's fine…." He lets his voice drone on and on, murmuring assurances, insisting on rest, until finally House acquiesces and allows his eyes to close, pulls in a deep breath, and surrenders to sleep.

Wilson rolls the reclining chair over to where House had fallen, and he and Cuddy are able to return him to it easily, without causing him any apparent discomfort. Cuddy spends a few minutes getting a set of vitals, jotting them down, straightening the office. She doesn't look at Wilson, doesn't say anything as she works. She looks miserable.

"Cuddy, talk to me," Wilson finally says. "Something more than that note is bothering you. I don't think that you still believe it was meant as a suicide note, but you're still upset."

Cuddy meets his kind, inquisitive eyes with her own guilt-filled ones. "I never should have left him. It was a stupid thing to do." She holds up a hand when she sees that Wilson is about to interrupt her, and continues, "Yeah, I know it was only five minutes. I know there was no choice. I even know that junkies go through this every day, alone, without physicians to monitor them. But I also know that they die alone every day, too."

Wilson doesn't try to argue with her; he's already had the same thought, and he's come to terms with it, understands what could have happened, has taken comfort in the fact that it hadn't been any worse than it was. He knows that Cuddy will have to work through that process herself. And he knows she will, so he leaves it alone.

"I stopped by to see Foreman on my way to House's place," he tells her. "I wanted to settle something with him. He said a pretty cruel thing when House collapsed yesterday, and House heard him. He pretty much called House soulless. I needed to know why. I went there prepared to do battle with an arrogant sonofabitch, and I left thinking how unbelievably lucky we are to have him on our team." He laughs at Cuddy's confused expression, and settles in to tell her all about the insightful conversation the two men had shared.

When he's finished talking, she looks as awed as he'd been. "He was up at 3:00 in the morning, trying to help House?" she says; her own view of the young neurologist is undergoing the same transformation that Wilson's had. "It makes sense now," she continues. "He doesn't loathe House, he loathes his condition. That's pretty amazing. No wonder he was so quick to believe my story; it just motivates him to search harder." Then she laughs. "Can you imagine House's face if he knew that _Foreman's_ pulling such a big one over on him?" Wilson laughs too, and a bit of sadness lifts from them both.

---

It's been over an hour, and House has stabilized. It's time to talk. They hate to wake him, but they have to know, and they're aware that he's anxious to explain it. Cuddy puts a hand on his shoulder, gently says, "Wake up, House. We're ready to listen." She rubs his shoulder until he responds.

House rouses reluctantly, but appears aware and rational. "How's the pain?" Wilson asks.

House considers. "Tolerable. What the hell happened?"

Cuddy explains the phone call, her brief absence, meeting up with Wilson on her return, and how they'd found him clutching the paper. How they'd been certain it was a suicide note. House is listening keenly, focused on every word. When Wilson hands him the small piece of paper, he studies it for a full minute before he looks up at them.

"I heard the phone call. I heard you leave. Then I had a visitor—"

"You couldn't have, I locked—" Cuddy starts to interrupt, but Wilson puts a hand on her arm and shakes his head almost imperceptibly.

House continues, "I made a deal with him. My soul, in exchange for 24 hours without pain. He left. There wasn't any pain. I got up and wrote the note." He looks at Wilson. "I just figured you'd think it was a stupid deal." He looks down, silent a moment. "I didn't mean to scare anybody. Sorry," he mumbles. Then he looks up and begins to speak again, his voice intense. "I walked the halls for a while; they were empty, I didn't see anyone. Then I went out onto the grounds and watched the sun come up."

He sees the look that Wilson and Cuddy exchange, turns his head to look out the window and sees that the sun is just rising now. He nods to himself, as if that confirms something. "Then, I wanted to go home, so I came back here to try to find my keys. But my leg started to hurt again. Then it spasmed. My guest returned, said that our contract had been breached because someone had prayed for my soul." Neither House nor Cuddy see Wilson's eyes widen. "I cried out, I guess, and then you were here." He stops talking, and they can see that he's in diagnostic mode.

After a moment he says, almost as if he's lecturing a class, "The phone call was real. Cuddy's leaving was real. And the note is real. Nothing else actually happened. The morphine caused a waking hallucination. Wasn't just a dream; there'd be no note. I incorporated reality—Cuddy's call and departure—into the hallucination. I must have been subconsciously thinking about what Foreman said when I went down yesterday, and I turned it into my reality. There is no logical time continuum during hallucination; an hour can take a minute, a minute can last a day…."

Cuddy and Wilson both flash back to the extraordinary lecture he'd given to a class of interns a year ago; he'd used his own infarction as a teaching case. He's doing it now, too; same clinically detached tone, same coolly analytical demeanor—he could have substituted "the patient" for the word "I" and they'd have thought he was discussing an interesting case. Last year, however, the raw hurt that had been in his eyes had been evident to those closest to him—Wilson, Cuddy, his team. The same look they see now, and they know how much this formal objectivity is costing him.

He sighs, and his eyes go distant for a moment, and they think that the meds and the weariness are pulling him back under. Then he focuses again. "It was good," is all he says.

All the thinking, talking, analyzing, has worn House down, and he leans his head against the pillow and closes his eyes. It appears he's going back to sleep, and Cuddy stands to get the BP cuff. His eyes open immediately. "I'm not finished. There's one more thing."

He looks at them both, a firm, resolute gaze, and says, "I did _not_ plan to kill myself. But just so we're all straight here, if I ever do decide to go that route, I won't mess it up." He turns his head to Wilson, locks eyes with him; "And I will arrange it so that you are _not_ the one to find me. I may be soulless, but even _my_ cruelty has boundaries."

Both his friends look as if he's just punched them in the gut. He smiles almost gently, trying to take some of the sting out of his words. It doesn't work, and he's sorry, but he wants them to know that he is the only one responsible for his own life. Or death.

"And before anyone starts making any plans for a cozy cocoon in the psych ward, I do not currently have suicidal ideations. I do not have a plan. I do not pose a danger to myself or others," he rattles off the answers to the pertinent questions on the standard psych intake form. "Satisfied?"

Wilson and Cuddy look sadly at each other, both realizing that he means every word, that he's thought about this in his patented, reasoned way, that he's quite sane. And they know that if this man decides that death is what he wants, or needs, no one will be able to stop him. The only comfort that either can take is that, clearly, he's also decided that now is not the time.

"I need to sleep now," he says. He closes his eyes and allows himself to float away.

Wilson turns to Cuddy. There are tears in both their eyes, and each pretends not to see the other's fear. Then Wilson reaches out, and they hug for a moment. As they turn together to regard their battle-worn friend, Wilson puts a hand on her arm. "We need to talk," he says.


	16. Chapter 15: The Plan

**A/N: **_All medical procedures discussed in this chapter are fact-based._

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: The Plan

Wilson and Cuddy walk to House's desk and take seats. Wilson looks more intense, more focused than Cuddy's ever seen him, and even before he begins to speak she senses that he's staked a lot on this conversation.

"I need for you to hear me out before you say anything, Lisa. Are you willing to do that? Because if you can't hear everything I have to say before making a decision, I'm not going to waste my time or yours. More importantly, I won't waste _his_ time."

Cuddy sighs. "You two are aging me more than you know. From him, I expect it. Sometimes, I even enjoy it. It… amuses me. But from _you_? Why does the world suddenly seem off-kilter?" Wilson just looks at her, waiting. He's serious, and won't engage in banter. "Okay, hit me," she says. She rests her forehead in her hand and closes her eyes: _It's only 8:00 in the morning; can this day get any longer?_

"What would you say if I told you I can get him back to where he was a year ago?" Wilson asks.

"You know I'd say go for it. But you can't do that… can you?"

"It's pretty well acknowledged that chronic pain alters the neurons in the brain. The brain adapts to these alterations by memorizing the pain cycle, and firing off all the right amounts of agony when certain nerves are stimulated. It's like a computer program—push A, and B always happens. But when you start throwing breakthrough pain into the equation, the brain doesn't like the disruption. So it begins to assimilate the breakthroughs into the cycle. After while, you push A, and B _and_ C start happening."

Cuddy is fascinated. "And that's what's been going on with House?"

Wilson nods. "It's been going on for several months now. It's getting worse; we've all seen it. The only way to stop it is to break the cycle, keep it broken long enough for his brain to 'forget' the pattern, at which point it'll just go back to having A trigger B. We do that for House, and his daily pain levels roll back to what they were about a year ago."

Wilson sees that he still has her full attention, and she doesn't look doubtful, so he continues. "It should take 24 hours. We put him on a continuous morphine drip, and keep him close to '3' on the sedation score chart—sedated and difficult to rouse."

"A chemically-induced coma?" _Now_ she's looking doubtful, and Wilson knows that she's remembering the events of almost seven years ago.

"No, that would be level '4'. I said he'll be _difficult_ to rouse, not impossible. And, after the first sixteen hours, I'll start moving him to level '2'—still sedated, but easy to rouse. I'll keep him there the rest of the time. Then, once he's awake, we immediately start him on a therapeutic dose of Vicodin, and, after a few hours, well, he's good to go."

"So what's the catch? It sounds good. We'll put him in the unit right now and get started."

"_That's_ the catch—no unit." As Cuddy's eyes widen and she opens her mouth to speak, he reminds her tersely, "You agreed to hear me out. I'm not finished. The procedure isn't medically complicated; it simply requires intensive monitoring."

"Hence the term _Intensive_ Care Unit," Cuddy interrupts impatiently.

"Not necessary. And not a good idea. The whole hospital'd know inside of an hour—including his team. And all the psychological contraindications still stand. Cuddy, this is what I _do_, and I'm good at it. When we did the study in January with twenty bone cancer patients, there wasn't a single untoward incident. And while right now it could be argued that House is medically fragile, not one of the study patients was as generally healthy as he is."

"_If_ I agree to this—and that's a very big if—what would you need?"

"Not much. A cardiac monitor with a pulse oximeter would be the biggest thing. I've got a friend at the Hospice pharmacy—we can get the scrip for the morphine through him, he doesn't know House. He'll recognize the name, and I might have to answer a question or two later, but he won't breach patient confidentiality. A few other supplies and some more O2, fluids, and Compazine should cover it." Wilson sees that she's still on board. "There's just one more problem," he says.

Cuddy closes her eyes and massages her temples. "And I'm sure you're going to share it with me."

"This is one you can't share—I wish you could. I can't do this without House's informed consent. He doesn't trust anyone, and why should he? And I'm going to be asking him to trust me with his life. He'll be totally reliant on me for 24 hours, completely vulnerable--without control. And that's not an easy thing to ask of anyone. But House—well, he's not exactly your average, uninformed patient, blindly placing his trust in the all-knowing physician."

"You've got a remarkable gift for understatement," Cuddy observes dryly.

"So if you're agreeing to this, I'll need to wake him and talk with him—alone."

Cuddy throws both hands in the air; "Sure, why not? I was getting tired of this job anyway. And who knows? Maybe opening a private ICU in an _office wing _will someday generate revenue. Silly me, I don't know why I didn't think of it before… no, scratch that, I _do_ know why--this is_ insane_!"

Wilson's grin reaches his eyes; "This is House. It fits."

Cuddy chokes back a laugh. "All right. You've got your 24 hours. But I'm warning you--_one _blip and he's in the unit."

Wilson looks at her, all traces of humor gone. "No. You know there'll be blips. You've gotta trust me. _He's_ gotta trust me."

Cuddy sighs, nods. "I'll set it up. I don't know _how, _but I'm certain I'll think of something. God knows, these last seventeen hours have taught me how to break the rules with the best of 'em. 'Course, the best of 'em is _House_, and even _he's_ never suggested creating a hospital inside a perfectly good... _hospital_."

She fixes Wilson with an exasperated eye. "You may have just outclassed your partner in crime with this one, Dr. Wilson." Cuddy rolls her eyes. "Safety? Honesty? Merely abstract, overrated concepts in my book." She walks out, muttering about unnecessary risks and liabilities, and Wilson knows she'll take care of everything. Everything _except_ convincing House.


	17. Chapter 16: Trust

**A/N: **_There's a line in this scene that those of you who've read the recaps of the Actor's Studio HL interview will recognize immediately. I had to borrow it; it just so belongs here._

_With thanks (and birthday wishes) to HL, although Wilson is the one who says it here._

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Trust

Wilson waits an hour; he's spoken with Cuddy, and she's got everything arranged. They should be able to begin no later than noon. This way, if all goes according to plan, he'll get House out of here late tomorrow afternoon. A full day at home Monday, and he'll be able to return to work Tuesday. _Sounds real good—now all I've gotta do is get House to agree to be utterly vulnerable, powerless, and unaware. 'Oh yeah, and House, one more thing; this would really be easier if you'd just put those little trust issues aside too.' _He shakes his head. _Yeah, Wilson, and tomorrow, he'll be begging for clinic duty, too; this is so not gonna fly._

Finally, he decides to just wing it, speak to House's knowledge of medicine and his uncanny grasp of scientific logic. That'd sell him on the procedural part. For the emotional aspects, Wilson has an angle—the truth, plain and unembellished. And painful and risky. But finally, comforting. Wilson believes, strongly, that there is comfort to be found in even the hardest truths. _Everybody lies_. "Not this time, House. I'm gonna have to count on your keen diagnostic skills to see the truth this time around."

He walks over to House, who's made good use of the hour; he's been sleeping undisturbed, actually appears peaceful to the untrained eye. Wilson almost wishes he weren't so well trained and could pretend not to see the quivering, involuntary tremors in the right thigh; it looks as if there's a fan blowing lightly over him, gently ruffling the sheet over his leg.

As Wilson reaches out to wake House and begin what he hopes is the most persuasive argument of his life, he hears Cuddy's key in the door. She wheels in a small supply cart, overflowing with all the items Wilson's requested. She removes its drape so Wilson can check it. "Hospice is sending the morphine over now," she says. "I told them to deliver it to your office. I'll bring it in when it arrives. I ordered some Narcan too, in case you need to bring him out of it." She looks at House, then back at Wilson. "You haven't spoken with him, I take it?"

"Not yet. How'd ya know?"

"I haven't received any complaints of excessive noise from two floors down yet. Dead giveaway." She wheels the cart over to the side of the room, out of House's line of vision, and says, "I pity the acting administrator when inventory week arrives and all this stuff's gone missing." When Wilson shoots her an alarmed look, she says, "I'm gonna make sure I plan my vacation for around that time." She cocks her head at him. "Maybe I'll appoint you to do it…poetic justice…." She laughs when Wilson sticks his tongue out at her.

She looks again at House, then back to Wilson. "You can do this. Get it over with; it might not be as bad as you think." They share an amused look at the patent absurdity of that statement, and she says, "Look, you convinced _me_. Yesterday, I would never have believed that you could pull a 'House' better than House himself and today I'm along for the ride. Miracles happen. Make another miracle." She gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "Call me when the fireworks are over," she teases as she leaves.

Wilson takes a deep breath, then another. He sends up a quick prayer. And then, "House, can you wake up a minute? House?"

----

Wilson has presented all the medical aspects of his plan. He's done it clinically, factually.

House has listened patiently, not interrupting at all. _That's a good sign…isn't it? _thinks Wilson. And then House looks at Wilson and his eyes are blank, unreadable for once.

"No," House says flatly. "Thanks for the lesson. But no. Not a snowball's chance in hell, in fact. Pardon the reference."

_Okay, time to bring out the big guns. _"House, listen. Obviously, I think this is the best thing for you, in my professional opinion. But beyond that, well, it's like this. You've been telling me for a long time that things were going downhill. And I blew you off because _I_ couldn't deal with it." He sighs. "Selfish, I know. So you were forced to deal with it alone. You don't have to deal with it alone anymore. I'm listening to you now; so's Cuddy."

House gazes at some faraway spot on the wall. "But I'm not talking anymore. Failed 'shares warm fuzzy feelings' in kindergarten, ya know."

_Here we go. _"House, I have no right to ask this. My guilt isn't your problem. But I'm having a hard time living with myself right now. The only thing that's gonna change that is maybe being able to help you. I….I guess what I'm trying to say is, I _need_ to do this for you. I need you to trust me again." He smiles ruefully. "Pitiful, yeah. But there it is."

House's eyes are still blank, still pinned to that spot on the wall. "While all this is very interesting—touching, even—I'm not your confessor. Go find a priest, a rabbi…just leave me out of it." When he stops talking, his words hang cruelly in the air for several moments.

Wilson's hurt has grown so large it's a presence in the room with them. He hates himself for that. _He's not gonna do it. I've failed; I've failed him. Again. _When he speaks, his voice is resigned, and he's speaking more to himself now than to House. "I didn't deserve to even ask…I'd hoped…believed…you don't deserve to suffer, House. I turned a blind eye to your suffering…no compassion there, huh?...so sorry…guess I need to rethink the whole empathy thing…guess I lost it somewhere between too many patients and not wanting to believe how much you were hurting…but you were the one who paid…probably my patients did too…."

"Okay."

"Huh?" Wilson is startled from his sad reverie. House is looking at him now.

"Okay," House repeats. "I'll do it. But it's not for you. On the off chance that I do have a soul in here somewhere, I don't wanna be responsible for all those cancer kiddies losing Dr. Compassion, not on my account. So I'll do it. Don't make me repeat it again; I might change my answer."

Wilson knows he needs to cover his shock, even his happiness. _Yeah, wrapping him in a big warm hug and thanking him profusely would just get me tossed over the balcony anyway._ So he slips into the role of practical physician. "Good, then. We'll get set up. When the morphine arrives, we'll be able to get started." He sees that House's eyes have followed his to the supply cart. _Damn, I meant to cover that stuff._

House's baleful glare at the catheter kit is so comically pitiful that Wilson can't help but laugh sympathetically. "Don't worry about that. I'll take care of it once you're out. Not that torturing you doesn't have its appeal, but even I think your body's been doing a bang-up job of that already."

House eyes him, the traces of months of utter frustration written on his face. "Nah, gee, ya think?" he asks sarcastically, but there's a little humor in there too.

Wilson decides there's no time like the present for having one more honest conversation. _So yeah, I'm a masochist, let's just get all this truth stuff over at once._

"House, I gotta tell you something. There was one more part of your hallucination that wasn't...hallucinatory. That part about someone praying? That would be…me. I...um...stopped in the chapel on my way back in, and I...uh...had a little talk. With God. Okay, intellectually we know it's a coincidence that I should do what I did, when I did, but you gotta admit, the timing's kinda freaky, House."

"You talked to the big Dog about me? Jimmy, I'm touched! Way cool! What'd He have to say?"

Wilson cocks an amused eyebrow at him. "He said to tell you '_no hard feelings_.' Said you'd understand."

House stares at him for a minute--and then he laughs. And he keeps laughing, seemingly unable to control his mirth. Finally, he tries to regain control. "I had this _awesome_ deal, and I should've known--" he interrupts himself with more laughter. "Cameron, I could've believed. Even Father Chase. But you!" More wild laughter, and now it's verging on hysteria. Wilson leans over and raises the oxygen flow. "I had this sweet deal, and my best friend screws it up 'cuz he's worried about my _soul..." _he gasps.The laughter is starting to die down, finally.

Wilson waits patiently for House to catch his breath, but it takes a while, because he's still laughing at intervals. When Wilson is pretty certain he's finished, he looks curiously at House. "Would you have really done that? I mean, if it had all been for real? Would you have sold your soul? Is it that bad?"

House grows instantly quiet, contemplative. "Yeah, it's that bad. There are hours--days, even--when I'd do just about anything for relief." He looks hard at Wilson, needs to make certain he really gets it now. "You know that." Wilson acknowledges the truth of the statement with a regretful nod. "But...no, I wouldn't do that. I found something out, Jimmy. It's really weird, but...I found out it's better not to know. If you're reminded what 'normal' is, it hurts bad when they take it away again. You can't really miss what you don't remember."

The two friends sit in silence for a moment, both lost in their own thoughts. Then House reaches out, grasps Wilson's wrist. "I'm trusting you," he says, and there is something like wonder in his voice. He'd never expected--he'd never _wanted_--to trust again.

This is not the time for banter, and it's not the time to allow House to scurry back behind his walls. Wilson looks at him and this time, this one time, he allows all his love and loyalty for his very complex friend to shine in his eyes. He covers House's hand with his own and says simply, "I'll keep you safe."


	18. Chapter 17: Facing Fears

**A/N:** _Many thanx for all your kind, funny, perceptive reviews; they truly do make the writing easier for me, thus better for you._ _To _bmax_, who made me think, and _Jazelle 1996 _who patiently held my cyberhand when the reaction to chapter 14 was underwhelming and I was getting nervous, and to those who review regularly and encouragingly—YOU GUYS are why I update so promptly! And to _DIY Sheep_, whose fic "Ode to Love" had me laughing so hard at 3:00am that I actually had the energy to finish this chapter; check "Ode" out, especially if you (like me), normally run screaming and rending garments whenever you see the dreaded initials HC. /_end mushy rant

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Facing Fears

Wilson is trying to keep the mood light as he sets up, but he sees House withdrawing into himself, and that's not good. _Let's just confront this head on, get the elephant outta the living room already._

He goes over to the recliner, holding the dreaded patient gown. "Are you ready to get changed? It'll be easier with all the equipment." He wears his matter-of-fact doctor voice.

"Do I have a choice? What if I say no, I'm not ready?"

_Good! There's the opening I've been waiting for. _"Of course you have a choice. If you're not ready, then we'll just wait until you are." Wilson keeps his voice soft, his tone mild; "This isn't six years ago, House. And it's not a coma." He sees House flinch, and knows he's pegged the problem correctly. "This time around, you're calling all the shots. Absolutely nothing's gonna happen to you that you don't know about, and nothing at all will happen until you're ready." He tosses the gown onto the monitor stand and sits down next to the recliner like they have all the time in the world. He doesn't look at House as he continues to speak.

"If I were you, I'd be pretty damned scared right now. I'd be wondering if I was making a mega-mistake, wondering if I could back out. Well, like I said, this is your call all the way, and if you change your mind, then you change your mind. That's not backing out, not when you're the one in charge." Wilson stands, still not looking at House, and walks to the window. _You're taking a chance here_, _Wilson; what'll you do if he calls your bluff and changes his mind?_

"Of course, on the other hand, keeping the prize in view would probably mitigate a lot of my fear. I mean, I can't imagine what you've been going through. I just know that _I_ want it to end for you. And just knowing how much better it'll be, well, that's worth conquering a few fears, right?" He chances a look over at House, and is astonished to see him grinning back at him, vastly amused.

"You've got a good bedside manner, Jimmy. About as transparent as Cuddy's turquoise blouse, but very calming—unlike that blouse," he leers.

"House!" Wilson explodes. "Just how long were you going to let me continue my pathetic Marcus Welby impression?"

"Don't worry, I was gonna stop you before we got to the hand-patting and the lollipop." He's still grinning at Wilson, and his eyes are bright with gratitude. "Now let's grab that gown and get on with it. Eyes on the prize, right, Jimmy?"

Wilson shakes his head, smiling. "You're _exasperating_, you know that, House?" he says as he helps him out of the scrubs and attaches the monitor leads to his chest. He slides the gown on and replaces the O2 as House continues to chatter happily.

"Yeah, I mighta heard that word paired up with my name one or three times. 'Course, that was yesterday. I don't have the count in for the whole week yet." House is looking pretty damned pleased with himself, isn't even paying attention as Wilson turns on the monitor, winds the automatic BP cuff around his arm, places the pulse oximeter on his finger. _So far so good_, thinks Wilson, _but it's not real to him yet._

As he's reconnecting the IV tubing, Wilson says casually, "Would you mind if I start another line? With the drip going, I'd like to have another port."

"Jimmy, what is _wrong_ with you? I know you need another port; lucky for you I've got veins comin' out of my ears—well—my arms, anyway." He sticks his arms out, turns them over, and presents them proudly to Wilson.

Wilson is laughing so hard he couldn't get a needle in if a vein stood up and waved at him. "House, you are absolutely _snockered_ on that last dose of morphine!" Wilson knows a good situation when he sees one, and quickly gathers the supplies for the IV.

As he's preparing to insert the cannula, he tells House, "I'm gonna go ahead and pull some blood for a pre-anesthesia panel, save you another stick, okay?" Instantly, he feels House's arm tense up in his hand. "What's the matter, you suddenly acquire a fear of needles?" he laughs, unable to look up from the insertion of the cannula.

"How's the blood getting to the lab?" asks House—and the tone of his voice gets Wilson's attention. He glances up; House's face is tight, closing off again. _What the hell just happened? _he wonders. He quickly grabs a syringe, draws the blood, flushes and caps the site.

"House, what's the matter? Did I hurt you? Is it the leg?"

"I said, how's the blood getting to the lab, Wilson. Can you just answer the question?"

_Uh-oh_. "Cuddy'll take it. She'll run it herself, no records. She's being unbelievably cool about all this, House, you'd be proud of her. Before this is all over, we'll have her converted over to the fun side."

"_You're_ not going?" There's a faint hitch in his voice that only Wilson would catch. _Ahh_, _okay, so that's it; I thought of everything-- except assuring him that I won't leave him alone. Careful, Wilson, let's fix it…._

"You're kidding, right? I go out there and twenty people are going to need forty things from me. I've got the dream situation right here; I get to play doctor with only one patient to focus on. Why would I wanna screw with that?" He sees just a little of the tension leave House's face. _Not good enough._ "You're stuck with me; I'm not leaving this room until we leave it together."

The rest of the tension leaves House; Wilson sees him close his eyes for a second to compose himself. "I guess I'll just have to live with that, then," House says. "Being cooped up with you for all those hours…I s'pose it's a gift I'll be knocked out through most of it. _Might_ make it bearable."

Wilson breathes an inward sigh of relief. _Got past that pretty well. But_ _he's coming down off that morphine high; everything's beginning to sink in. Tread carefully here._

The key turns in the lock and Cuddy comes in. She's carrying a large cardboard box, the words _Plainsboro_ _Hospice _printed prominently on the side. "I knew it!" House says. "This is all a devious plot to kill me and steal my priceless cane so you two can ride off into the sunset together!" Cuddy looks a question at Wilson; all he can do is raise his eyebrows and shrug at her. House's mood changes are lightning-fast and pretty disorienting; Wilson's feeling just a bit seasick.

"You'd better be nice to her, House—that's your happy juice she's got there."

"And she's wearing the turquoise blouse! Cuddy, you're too good to me."

This time when Cuddy looks to him for help, Wilson wishes he'd thought to knock House out earlier. With his priceless cane.

"I don't know _what_ he's babbling about," he tells Cuddy, trying very hard to keep his eyes trained upward, on her face. Finally, he gives up and changes directions entirely so that he can glare menacingly at House. That's futile too, as House is busy trying out all his nonverbal flirting techniques on Cuddy, who is by now studiously ignoring both men.

She's spotted the blood-filled syringe. She picks it up. "What tests do you want me to run on this?" _She's all business_, Wilson thinks. _Wonder what's bothering her?_ She seems in a hurry to leave, so Wilson scribbles out a lab slip. "After I run this, I'll be in my office if you need me."

"I _always_ need you, Cuddy!" House says. But Cuddy doesn't take the bait, doesn't even smile. She just stares through him, says "Good luck, House," then turns quickly and leaves. Wilson is worried, but it'll have to wait. It's time to ease House into la-la land.


	19. Chapter 18: Going Under

**A/N: **_I'm putting this up early today; I live in central Florida, and we're currently being pounded by tropical storm Alberto—I've already lost my home network once this morning. :(_

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Going Under

House has never eased into anything in his life; he either jumps in without a backward glance, or refuses to budge—a two-year-old in the middle of his favorite _Barney_ video when it's time to leave for preschool. Wilson suspects that they're going to be dealing with the latter situation this morning. He doesn't feel like he's preparing the patient for treatment; it's far closer, he thinks, to what a parent with a recalcitrant child must feel.

He's just finished getting House hooked up to every single piece of equipment when House announces, "I need to pee."

"And you couldn't have mentioned this _before_ we got you tethered to all this stuff? Why didn't you tell me before?"

House pouts. "You didn't ask."

"Don't pout; you don't do 'cute' well. Kinda frightening, actually. Use the urinal, House; you're attached to this bed."

"Nope. If I'm gonna be stuck here for 24 hours, I wanna get up and _walk_ to the bathroom and piss in the porcelain. C'mon, let's go."

Wilson rests his head in his hand and says through his teeth, "Use the urinal, House. Please."

"C'mon, I really gotta go." Wilson has never heard a grown man whine so annoyingly, hadn't known that a two-year-old's voice could issue from a six-foot body.

"Use. The. Urinal. House." Wilson drops his head down to the recliner's armrest, pressing hard against it with his forehead, trying to stop the dull throb that's taken up residence behind his eyes. "Are you for real?" he mutters to House.

"You said _I_ was calling the shots. I wanna call the shots. You said I could call the shots."

"The _procedural_ shots, House; you're not old enough yet for the decisions that require adult input, we've discussed this."

"But I gotta pee. _Now_."

Wilson forces himself to take the deepest breath he's ever taken in his life, lifts his head, smiles at House, and picks up the catheter kit.

"I have a great idea, Jimmy--I'll use the urinal!"

---

Cuddy sits alone in her office, staring out the window and thinking. Remembering. She doesn't _want_ to remember; the images come without her permission. _I should really be downstairs helping House through this. And poor Wilson; who's supporting him? _But she can't make herself move. She won't go down there; she can't watch House as he goes under again. Yet here she is, watching it anyway, seeing House six years ago lying vulnerable, and in pain, and trusting, in a hospital bed—_that was the last time I saw him trust_—and _she_'s the one by his bedside, the one holding the syringe that would ruin his life—and save it. The movie playing in her head is oddly compelling, like watching the aftermath of a traffic accident; she knows she should look away, but her eyes keep returning to the wreck, the bodies. _Oh, Lisa, you know that Stacy did what had to be done to save his life—why can't you grant yourself the same understanding?_

"You _know_ why," she says aloud. "You were the one who had a damned good idea what kind of life you were sentencing him to. And you knew _him_, so you didn't just have an _idea_ how he'd feel about spending the rest of his life like this, you _knew_ how he'd feel. And you let it happen—no, you _made_ it happen!"

Rationally, she knows that this time it'll be different; no coma, no surgery, no standing unseen in the door to House's room as he lies in there all alone, crying soundlessly two days after the surgery. That's the image that stays with her—that, and her hand pressing the plunger on the syringe as House goes under willingly, _trusting_ her. So she won't be there for this. She can't.

---

House has worn himself out with his antics, and the thigh spasms must be returning, because his eyes are squeezed tightly shut and a glance at the monitor shows his respiratory rate is climbing fast. Wilson checks his watch; 11:20am. Time to get this show on the road.

Wilson's hanging the first bag, and House is realizing that this is really happening. Wilson looks down at him as he connects the line to the heplock, says gently, "You hangin' in there?"

House opens his eyes. _Yeah, there's the pain, _Wilson thinks. The monitors can't lie, and neither can House's eyes.

"I wanna do this slow. Can we skip the bolus?" House asks.

"House, you're spasming again. Twenty milligrams of morphine will stop it from getting worse, and you'll be out before you know it."

"But I _want_ to know it. Goin' down fast, it's just creepy. I wanna do this slow, have a little time to talk, make my deathbed proclamations, all that neat stuff." A thinly drawn smile quirks the corner of his mouth. Wilson sees through the smile, sees the plea and the fear.

"Of course." Wilson puts down the syringe. "I'm starting the drip now. We'll start with 30mg an hour, that'll give you a good ten minutes to issue those proclamations. I'll titrate up from there once you're asleep, okay?" He punches the settings into the pump, then presses 'run'.

House nods. "Where's Cuddy? Doesn't she wanna be here, see me helpless? It'll turn her on; she's hot for me. Hides it well, but still. I know these things."

"I'll page her." If House wants Cuddy here for this, he'll have her here. _Hell, if he wants a few dancing girls and a live band, I'll find a way to get those too. _

Wilson starts to go to the phone, but House, looking suddenly thoughtful and sad, stops him. "No, wait. I can't do….Never mind, stinkin' idea. Just us guys, okay?"

Instinct tells Wilson not to question this sudden change of heart. "Sure, House, just us guys. It'll be fun, just like a Friday night. Just pretend you're taking your beer IV. It's the latest in beer delivery systems."

House doesn't smile, and he doesn't respond right away. As Wilson is trying to think of a way to take his mind off of what's happening, House asks quietly, "What if this fails?"

"When have you and I ever failed at anything?" asks Wilson.

"Well, if you don't count marriages, relationships…"

"As a _team_, House; I meant as a team."

"There's no 'I' in team, ya know; but there's—" _Oh, joy, here comes one of those freaky mood changes. _Wilson grimaces.

"House, I know the rest. Boy, you're really going under if the best you can do is recycle your old one-liners."

House, eyes closed, snickers. He's apparently pretty impressed with his own one-liner, recycled or not, because he continues to laugh silently. Wilson looks down at him and can't help smiling back at the grin on his face. _Cuddy's right; he really is an eight year old boy in men's clothing. _Then House's mood changes again; his face has grown serious.

"You're a good friend, Jimmy, really good…never told you that, I should've…not sure I deserve you…pretty sure I don't. All this must be hell for you…Hell's not a nice place, devil's mean…took my leg away again…sorry I'm putting you through hell too….

Wilson thinks maybe he'd better recheck the label on that drip; maybe they'd sent sodium pentothal instead. _Now there's a scary thought; House on truth serum. _He shudders at the image.

"You're a good friend too, House. Maybe not in the traditional way, maybe not even in a way anyone else can understand. But you've always provided a home for me, on a lot of levels, and I'm just starting to understand that myself. Just so you know…thanks."

House nods his head in sleepy acknowledgement. _It won't be long now, House. Sleep well, my friend. Sweet dreams._

"Do I get a bedtime story, mommy?" House murmurs. His respiratory rate is slowing, each breath a little deeper.

"Yes, as a matter of fact you do. _Once upon a time there was a dedicated young oncologist--" _House snorts. "Okay, okay, don't interrupt. _The dedicated oncologist was younger_ _than the jaded old diagnostician. _Better?" House smiles drowsily. "And they had a lot of really cool adventures together, and routinely solved the world's problems, even though they couldn't solve their own."

House laughs softly as the sedation picks him up and takes him to a place without pain, and a faint smile remains on his face, even after the laughter's been gently silenced. Wilson lets out the breath he hasn't been aware he was holding. House had gone under easily, even willingly. Wilson couldn't have asked for better.


	20. Chapter 19: House Sleeps

**A/N:** _a dark filler of a scene, in which we learn that House sleeps. and then he sleeps some more. and i envy him. i need to sleep too. tired of living in House's office for the 10 days i've worked on this while my own house (small h) is overrun by dustbunnies and pizza cartons. you kiddies don't even have to tell me that this scene's weak, it's bad, it stinks, but you can, if it means i get to sleep for a day or three. over 1400 words to tell you that House sleeps; how exciting is that? now me sleeping-- that would be exciting. so…umm… let's go watch House sleep….. _

CHAPTER NINETEEN: House Sleeps

Wilson knows he needs to call Cuddy, get her down here to talk, find out what was up with that last visit. But first, he wants to get House completely settled in for his very long night. He takes a set of vital signs the old-fashioned way; stethoscope for heart and lungs, warm, soothing hands on back and chest--_he's lost so much weight, when did that happen?--_, gentle fingers for pulse; not the electronic monitors. He trusts the monitors; he simply believes more deeply in a caring touch, in the intangible human factor; he owes this to his patients. House has never understood the concept, has even said snidely, "They get just as well without the laying on of hands, and they don't leave here addicted to _caring_." As if caring was another disease to cure, a bad thing in need of fixing.

The assessment causes House to move a bit, try to get away from the disturbance. "So you're still at _2_, huh? Well, if you can hear me somewhere in there, you're doing really well, House. Just relax into it, okay?" He titrates the morphine up another 5mg, waits ten minutes, and tries to rouse the patient. This time, it takes painful pressure on his nailbed to get him to moan and try to pull his hand away. _Success! We're at _3_ now._ He writes it all down, and breathes a sigh of relief when he realizes that he's functioning —and feeling—like Dr. James Wilson, MD; he can finally put that whole friendship thing away for now and do something practical to help House.

He checks the IV sites, assesses House's pupils, puts drops in his eyes to keep them moist, and gets another respiratory rate. Once he's inserted the urinary catheter, though, and is taping the tubing to House's thigh, the awful sight of the wasted, discolored skin covering what used to be a quadriceps reminds him that this is his best friend who's currently lying here in such fragile condition. There's a quiet sadness in his eyes as he repositions House comfortably and covers him, and he decides that there's really no way to keep House's best friend Jimmy out of this room, and that this might not be an entirely bad thing—best friends and family members keep physicians on their toes because they throw that human factor in their faces.

_And while we're on the subject of this dysfunctional little circle House has created--._He takes his cellphone from his pocket and calls Cuddy.

Cuddy answers the phone on the first ring, asks without preamble, "Wilson, how's he doing?"

"So far, so good. I'd have called sooner, but we just came off doing the vitals every five minutes; we can move them up to every fifteen now. He went under without any problems, calm and happy, even; got him to _3_ well within the first hour. You coming down?"

_He's unconscious, that part's over, he wasn't scared, he wasn't alone, he's safe now…_a thousand thoughts run through her mind. "I'll be right there."

_---_

Wilson is just finishing a neuro check when Cuddy arrives, and he motions her to have a seat. She doesn't, though. She walks over to the recliner and looks down at House; her face is unreadable. She picks up a limp hand and begins to get his pulse. One hand is around his wrist, but Wilson notes that the other has curled softly around House's fingers and palm, so Wilson doesn't mention that he's just finished the vitals—what she's doing has nothing to do with medicine and everything to do with comfort. For whom, he's not sure.

Finally, Cuddy gently lays House's hand on his chest, and turns to the desk where Wilson is sitting. He looks up from his charting, and appraises her carefully before speaking. "He asked for you, ya know. Wanted you here while I sedated him." A flash of guilt across her face is gone so quickly that Wilson isn't even sure it was there. "But then he changed his mind. Almost as soon as he said the words. It was...odd."

_He knew; he knew, and he was trying to protect me. Thanks for that, House._ "If he'd really needed me, I'd have come."

"I think he knows that, Cuddy. I've been thinking about this; let me take a guess here. This has something to do with the part I missed during the infarct. The chemically induced coma, the surgery. How you felt then and how you feel today about your part in all of that." She doesn't look at him, and doesn't answer for so long that Wilson thinks she might not answer at all.

"Wilson," the word comes slowly. "Imagine something. Imagine that he's a couple days post-op, and you stop by his room. He's thrown Stacy out, and he's in there all alone. He doesn't see you, and he's lying there, and you can see the way the sheet drapes over his right thigh, looking almost normal because of the bulk of the bandages and the drains. And you know that pretty soon, all of that will be gone, and he's gonna look down at that sheet and see nothing but a valley where muscle used to be."

Wilson is listening intently, really trying to put himself in Cuddy's place, to see it through her eyes. This is the first time in all these years that anyone—including House--has spoken freely with him about those crucial days he'd missed.

"And then you see his face," Cuddy continues. "You think he's sleeping—his eyes are closed—and you're grateful. But you notice that his breathing isn't right for sleep. And you look at him again, and you see the tears running down the sides of his face. And he's not making a single sound; not _one_ sound, as he cries all alone. And you want to go to him—you _need_ to go to him, but your feet won't move. Because you know that you're directly responsible for those tears. You're able to rationalize your inaction by telling yourself that this is House, he'll shun your sympathy, but you know you're just trying to make yourself feel better. And it works, so you turn and walk away before he knows you were ever there." _His physical pain, I could have dealt with that. But it's _House; _his emotional agony is _still_ a foreign land to me. _She hadn't considered, at the time, that this particular emotional landscape was new territory to House, as well. And that she might—just might-- have been able to help guide him through it, undamaged. But she lives with that knowledge now, and it hurts her.

She takes a deep breath, refocuses on Wilson. "And then you live with that memory every day for six years, never able to share it with anybody, because you want to protect House's privacy—and your own guilt." She shakes her head to clear it; the scene she's created for Wilson is so real that she feels she's just lived through it again.

Wilson feels that he's living through it too, for the first time. And it hurts him, and the ache in his heart, the sadness for House that's always with him, grows just that much deeper.

The two friends sit in silence. Both are watching the sleeping man whose desperate needs have brought them all to this place. Cuddy is wondering how things _might_ be different; better now, if she'd entered House's room that day. Wilson is thinking that things _would_ be different, better now, if he'd been there that day. He knows he would have entered. _What was it Foreman said? 'You look him in the eye and hold a hand out to pull him back…'... I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, House, that there was no hand for you to grasp._

They both regret that they'll never really know if it would have made any difference at all. The only one who knows that is House, and really, neither Cuddy nor Wilson thinks they're strong enough to ask him—or to live with his answer.


	21. Chapter 20: Hours

**A/N: **_Just a calm little interlude—action returns next chapter—really. And there's a bit of foreshadowing here…._

CHAPTER TWENTY: Hours

It's 2:00pm, House has been out about two hours, and it's going well. Wilson looks at his watch and realizes that—other than the hour and a half's sleep he got at House's place—he's been awake for thirty-two hours. _Just like residency. But I was younger then._

At Cuddy's insistence, they've arranged for her to return at 4:00pm to care for House and allow Wilson to rest for a while. He'd have refused, but he's not going to do anything to endanger House—and an overly fatigued physician can be dangerous.

He takes a moment to study House's face in repose. Even in deep sleep—_especially_ in deep sleep—there's a vulnerability there that twists at Wilson's heart. It's not so noticeable, normally. When House has his walls up, which is pretty much every waking minute, he's able to hide the vulnerability beneath his quick intelligence and cynical, often cruel, humor. It keeps the focus off of him. But the undercurrent is always there, easy to read, in his eyes. Because his eyes say everything he can't, if you just take the time to read them. _That's something I haven't been taking the time to do. Won't let that happen again._

Wilson continues the 2:00pm assessment. Urine output's low; he calculates, then raises the rate on the saline drip. He gently turns House to his right side, places a pillow between his legs to keep the pressure of the left leg off the right. He reaches for a glycerin swab, moves it carefully over House's lips, smiles when House reflexively tries to suck the moisture from the swab.

Wilson had upped the rate on the morphine to 40mg, the low therapeutic rate for this procedure, an hour ago, and House's gesture lets him know that his level of unconsciousness is just right—sucking is a rudimentary reflex, left over from infancy, which indicates that the brain is still aware of what the body needs, but not aware of much else. And that's just as it needs to be. That's good—looks like they'll be able to stay at 40mg.

The pulse ox monitor beeps—O2 saturation is down; it's 92. Wilson frowns and adjusts the oxygen flow. After a few minutes, it's back up to 96. _Gonna have to watch that—shouldn't be dropping at all._ But House's lungs are clear, air movement's good, so Wilson relaxes.

---

It's 4:00pm; Cuddy's here, and she's trying to get Wilson to go to his own office to lie down. Wilson is having none of it. "I promised him I wouldn't leave 'til he did. It's okay; I'll just stretch out over there." He indicates the yellow lounge in the corner.

Cuddy realizes that this will be a losing argument, so she nods reluctantly, and picks up the unofficial chart they've been keeping. "Everything looks good; no problems so far?"

"I've had to increase the IV; his output was down. And the O2—his sats dropped to 92 for a while. You're gonna have to watch that; make sure you turn him every 30 minutes, all he needs is a nice case of pneumonia. Watch that leg when you turn him. He's due for artificial tears at 5:00; you can swab his lips then, too.

Cuddy smiles. "Wilson, you sound like a parent leaving a newborn with a sitter for the first time. Guess what—I'm a doctor, I think I've got this covered."

Wilson laughs at his own protectiveness, but that doesn't stop him from reminding her to keep the right leg in proper postural alignment, and to do some range of motion when she repositions him. "He's not moving at all on his own, and I don't want it stiffening up on him."

Cuddy knows that Wilson won't be able to rest well until he covers all his concerns, so she listens patiently, and hides her amusement—he's acting as if she's never cared for an unconscious patient before. But she understands, and agrees that it's not often that she cares for an unconscious patient who's so important to both of them.

Wilson finally heads over to the lounge and stretches out. "Wake me if anything changes--_anything_. Or even if you want help turning him. Please, Cuddy, don't hesitate—promise me."

She walks over to him with a pillow and blanket from the lower shelf of the cart. "I'll promise to wake you if I _need_ you, and that's the best you're gonna get. So take this—" she holds out the pillow, "and get comfortable, and quit worrying." She shakes out the blanket and drapes it over him. She can tell that everything's catching up with him all at once, and even before she's finished straightening the blanket, Wilson's asleep.

She looks down at him, over at House; her smile is warm and fond—_not_ an expression that too many people have ever seen on her face. But these two men mean a lot to her. Usually, she watches their incredible friendship from a distance, and envies them their easy comfort with one another. They've let her in this time, though, and she's touched by that. She feels honored, somehow, that House has allowed her in.

His relationship with her is complex, for both of them. Much of the time, he's operating out of anger, and she's operating out of guilt. This could make for real unpleasantness, but it rarely does—underlying his anger, her guilt, is a mutual respect that runs deep. Neither has ever acknowledged it aloud to the other, but both know it's there. And so, somehow, they've carved a friendship out of it.

Her friendship with Wilson came about slowly. Before House's infarction, she and Wilson scarcely knew each other. He did his job well, he was respected by his colleagues, and he never caused the kind of trouble that would bring him to her attention. After House's surgery, though, they got to know each other because once Wilson returned to town, he was always at House's side. He stayed even when Stacy would flee in tears or anger. He stayed even when House wouldn't talk, wouldn't acknowledge anyone's presence.

He stayed, even when House's verbal abuse became so bad that no staff would enter his room, and at those times Wilson would take over even the routine nursing care. When that happened, House would focus all that abuse at Wilson, all the cruel words raining down on the one person who never gave up on him. And Wilson's brown eyes would be sad, mostly; once in a while he'd get angry and yell back. But he always stayed. And so her respect for him turned to admiration and then to friendship. Eventually, and without any words, she and Wilson became the only support system that House would allow.

She looks again at the sleeping men, and—despite the circumstances—she likes the feeling of being able to protect both of them, for at least a little while.


	22. Chapter 21: Blip

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: Blip

Seven hours. It's been seven hours since House went under, and everything seems to be stable. Wilson has slept, soundly, for two of those hours, and according to Cuddy, the time had been uneventful. In the hour Wilson's been awake, House has been holding his own. But now, his heart rate's creeping up and his O2 sats are falling again.

Wilson stands over him, frowning. A thorough assessment had told him only that House's respiratory rate is climbing, heart rate's just a bit fast. And his breathing is becoming shallow. _He's in pain, _Wilson realizes. He's mournfully awed that House's pain can break through all the layers of sedation. "Now ya see, House, you're like the boy who cried 'wolf.' If you hadn't made the Vicodin look positively…recreational…I'd have picked up on all this a helluva lot sooner." _Oh, that's good, Wilson. Let's blame it on House when he can't even fight back. _He increases the rate on the morphine to 45mg and glues his eyes to the respiratory monitor.

When there's no improvement after ten minutes—actually, his respiratory rate is increasing, and the sat has fallen another point—Wilson ups the morphine to 50mg and waits. He's so tense he's actually forgetting to breathe properly himself. He forces himself to take several deep breaths, and then reassesses the situation.

He's still got his stethoscope to House's chest when it happens. The O2 sat alarm begins a steady, ominous screech. And House's respirations, which had been hovering at 22, drop to 5 per minute. Wilson tears his eyes away from House; sat's down to 87. "Damn! C'mon, House, let's not do this."

He reaches for the ambu bag, tears it out of its sterile wrap, dumps it on the bed. He briefly considers the syringe of Narcan and decides not to get drastic yet—the Narcan would reverse the problem immediately, and House would awaken screaming in agony and withdrawal, and all the careful work of the last hours would be undone.

He quickly drops the rate on the drip back to 45mg, and picks up the ambu. House's respirations are about 4 per minute now, but his heart rate's still within normal limits, so Wilson has a little time to straighten this out. He pulls the pillow from beneath House's head, tilts his head back slightly, and seals the mask to House's mouth and nose.

As Wilson squeezes the bag rhythmically, his eyes go from House's face, to the sat monitor, to the cardiac monitor. When the O2 sat hits 94, the steady alarm suddenly ceases. The only sounds in the room now are the steady _whoosh-gasp_ of the ambu bag and Wilson's own strained breathing.

The automatic BP cuff inflates, and Wilson sees that the blood pressure and heart rate remain stable. Once the O2 sat hits 96, he cautiously removes the ambu bag from House's face and sets the O2 flow rate on the nasal cannula up to 5 liters. House is breathing 10 a minute now, on his own. He appears deeply unconscious, comatose. Wilson attempts to rouse him, but hard pressure on his nailbeds, even pinching the web of skin between his fingers, yields nothing—not even an increase in heart rate.

Wilson closes his eyes and offers House a silent apology for what he's about to do. He balls his hand into a fist and presses his knuckles, hard, into the center of House's chest. He's always considered the sternal rub barbaric, has used it only twice in his career. After the second time, he'd sworn to himself he'd never do it again.

After 30 seconds of steady, increasing pressure, House responds with a low moan, a slight jerk of his head. Then his hand comes up, weakly, to try to brush away the source of the agony. Wilson breathes again.

He unties the gown and looks at House's chest. Already, there's a large bruise rising on his sternum. He reties the gown and gently places the pillow under House's head. Wilson's fighting the lump that's rising in his own chest, but finally he has no choice; he sinks down into the chair and lets the silent tears escape.

---

When Cuddy enters the room twenty minutes later, Wilson is composed again. He'd called her and told her about the incident, said she didn't need to come down, but she's worried about both of them. She squeezes Wilson's arm, examines his face. He's not happy, but he seems calm, back in control, so she heads over to House. He appears comfortable, and the monitors tell her that his vitals are all within normal limits.

Wilson joins her at the bedside. Wordlessly, he lowers the blanket to House's waist, undoes the tie on the gown, and reveals to her what he'd had to do to his friend. Cuddy looks at the spreading bruise and chuckles softly, sadly. She gives Wilson a small smile.

"You're gonna catch hell for that," she says.

Wilson attempts to smile back, fails miserably. "I know. But I don't think even House can make me feel worse than I already do." He shakes his head, reaches out to touch the bruise gently, then reties the gown. "The only good news here is that he came out of level _4_ pretty quickly once I put the drip down to 45mg. And he's been stable since then." He sighs. "I told you there'd be blips, but I guess I was hoping I'd be wrong."

"Listen, you got through it—you both got through it. He'll be okay. He _is_ okay. You did what you had to do; you need to let it go. We've got sixteen more hours of this. What would House say if he saw you feeling this way?"

Wilson considers. "He'd say, '_Jimmy, you couldn't have just threatened to take away my GameBoy? That would've gotten my attention a whole lot quicker, and with a lot less physical damage—to me, anyway_.' And then I'd duck—quickly."

This time, they're both able to laugh, and their laughter is so full that House stirs briefly in his sleep, and turns his head away from the noise.


	23. Chapter 22: Safety Net

**A/N: IMPORTANT—**_Someone PM'd me yesterday, asking if I'd made changes to chapter one. Yup—but I'd added only **one** word, and changed **one** other. And just this morning, I added one line towards the end of "Blip." This is a work in progress, and I'm not a rough-draft kinda writer. I type it out, and that's pretty much it. However, each chapter isn't finished until what's on the paper reads just the way I'm hearing it in my head. So there will be minor changes until I can look up and **see **the scene playing out on my blank TV screen. When I can "watch" what I've written, I've met my self-imposed standards. A bit of a perfectionist, it's a curse. I'm sorry if it's confused anyone. Forgive me? _mj

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: Safety Net

"It's midnight, House; we're halfway through. You're doin' great. Vitals are stable, output's good. Got the oxygen down to 3 liters and you're maintaining a 97 sat. I'm running your fluids at 125cc an hour, and you're titrated to 45mg an hour on the morphine. No indications of any pain. Level of sedation is still at _3_; sorry I keep disturbing you to check that, I know it's a pain in the ass, but that little scare a few hours ago, well—I'm just gonna have to keep disturbing you. Deal with it, okay?"

Wilson stands at the recliner looking down at House, and it appears to Cuddy as if he's actually expecting an answer from the unconscious man. She'd come in at the start of Wilson's report to House, and she'd listened quietly, a bit confused, but Wilson always had his reasons when it came to House, and those reasons were always sound.

Wilson nods his head at House, says "Keep up the good work," and turns to chart the results of his latest assessment. He smiles tiredly at Cuddy. "Be with you in just a sec, okay?" He seems not at all embarrassed to have been carrying on the one-sided conversation.

After a moment, he joins her over at the desk, where she's busied herself removing some styrofoam containers from a couple of take-out bags. He looks appreciatively at the large deli sandwich she's pushed across the desk towards him. "Mmm…looks good. Thanks." He takes a large bite of the sandwich. Around the mouthful of food, he says, "House is doing well."

"I know; I heard your report. You…um…_do_ know he can't hear you, right?" She smiles, inviting him to share in the humor of holding a one-sided conversation.

"No, I don't _know_ that; do you?" His tone is irritated, and Cuddy overlooks it—the man is exhausted, and under stress.

"Well," she says gently, "a sedation score of_ 3_ pretty much tells me that he's not exactly going to be holding any meaningful, interactive conversations right now."

"But Cuddy, it _doesn't_ tell you whether or not he _hears_ me when I speak to him!" He gives her a look that's just short of accusing. "Last time he was in a similar situation, no one told him anything. He's a physician; he'd want to know all those things I told him. But beyond that, he's a human being. He's had to overcome a lot of distrust for this, and I promised him that there wouldn't be any nasty surprises. If he can understand what I'm saying to him, then I'm reinforcing his decision to trust us. If he can't understand the words, that's all right too—the tone of my voice lets him know that he's safe."

_No wonder his patients love him_, Cuddy thinks. "You're right; I'm sorry. I don't get to do too much at the bedside anymore; I guess I've forgotten some of the finer points. Or maybe I forgot that even House deserves a little empathy now and then—whether he wants it or not."

Wilson smiles at this. "You didn't forget; you wouldn't be here if you had. But part of the reason we _are_ here is that he's been so damned good at convincing us that he doesn't want us to care. You believed it, and so did I, 'cuz it was just easier for all of us that way. I just can't allow that to happen again. We might not be able to turn it around next time."

"I know." She nods, remembering the statement he'd made to them about killing himself. She can tell from Wilson's face that he's remembering, too. After a minute, she asks him, "So what did you think when he talked about suicide?"

Wilson contemplates this a moment before answering. "I think he's given it a lot of thought. I think he was lying to us when he said he didn't have a plan. I think he _has_ a plan, and that he's had one a long time. And I think that we're lucky, that we just barely managed to take it off the front burner, and move it back to safety-net status. Because that's what it is; he gets comfort, I think, in knowing that there's a way out if it all just gets too much." Wilson sighs, rubs a hand over his face, and continues.

"But we've gotta find a way to replace that net with something… healthier. I've been thinking…. We know that House would never agree to go the counseling route. So I've decided to do it _for_ him. I'm gonna make an appointment with Dickinson, have a few sessions, work up a game plan."

He grins, says, "I'll bet it'll be the first time in Dickinson's career that someone's gonna come in talking about their hypothetical 'friend with a problem' where the 'friend' actually exists!"

Cuddy smiles too. "You don't think that ending the breakthrough pain will be enough to improve his state of mind? At least for a while?"

"Oh, I definitely think it'll help. But don't forget, we usually reserve this procedure for patients who are terminal, so we don't really have a good idea how long the improvement will last. And anyway, he was no great prize a year ago, before the breakthroughs started. It can't hurt to try and get some objective insight into how to handle him."

Cuddy looks impressed. "I just hope that someday House realizes what a good friend you are, how much you're willing to do for him."

"And I hope he _doesn't_ realize it, not anytime soon, anyway." The IV pump beeps, and Wilson stands and goes over to the recliner, hangs a new bag of saline. "He wouldn't be comfortable with it, Cuddy. He wouldn't be able to allow himself to process it, not right now. Think about it; he can't _accept_ acceptance—he feels he's not worthy of it. He's like the fat kid who cracks jokes about his own weight to beat others to the punch. He has to proclaim what a miserable excuse for a human being he is before anyone else proclaims it _for _him. That way, he can pretend that it doesn't hurt so much."

Wilson walks back to the desk. "And that's never gonna change, I don't think. It'll always be a part of who he is. I just have to accept that. Not in this for his gratitude, anyway."

"You don't _need_ a psychologist for this, Wilson—you _are_ a psychologist!" She smiles.

Wilson smiles too. "Yeah, well, House has given me a lot of on-the-job training."

He stands up, crumples the sandwich container and tosses it in the trash. "It's almost 1:00. Time for another assessment." He puts his hands to his lower back, stretches and yawns.

"This one's mine," Cuddy says. "The only thing _you're_ gonna assess right now is the inside of your eyelids. Go lie down, I'll House-sit. And before you start, yes, Dr. Wilson, I remember all my care-and-feeding-of-House instructions. Got 'em memorized. Now go get some sleep, and don't you dare move for at least two hours. Got that?"

Wilson smiles gratefully; he's glad that Cuddy is the one sharing this responsibility with him. "Ya know," he says, "I'm not the only one who qualifies for 'good friend to House' status. And he'll never say it to _you_, either—so let me say it for him. Thanks, Cuddy."

Wilson falls asleep to the reassuring sound of Cuddy, having a warm, one-sided conversation with House.


	24. Chapter 23: Family Matters

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: Family Matters

Exactly two hours later, Wilson awakens to the same sounds he was hearing when he'd drifted off—Cuddy, speaking with—or to, House. And to the sound of rain. For a while, he just lies there taking in the sounds; the soft, soothing voice, the rhythmic patter of the rain outside making him feel safe and sheltered in here. It reminds him of when he was young, and his parents would take him on long car trips. They'd always depart at night, and he'd fall asleep in the backseat, and each time he'd briefly wake, the hum of the tires on the road, the blanket of darkness, his mom's gentle voice would all conspire to send him quickly back to his dreams. He remembers feeling happy then, and safe; all was right with his world.

_It's been a long time since I've felt like that,_ he thinks. But he realizes he feels like that right now, and he's unwilling to give it up just yet. So he continues to lie there, protected and content, as he gives his mind free rein to go on a trip of its own.

_Cuddy's being so sweet with House, sounds as if she's speaking to a child. She'd have made a great pediatrician, an even better mom. Wonder why she never had kids._

_House must be doing really well at level 3; if his sedation were too light I'd know it—no way he'd let Cuddy get away with being nice to him! _He smiles drowsily as his thoughts wander his mental library of dreams and memories, questions, hopes, fears.

_Mmm, rain's comin' down hard now. Hope my brother's dry, safe tonight…hope my brother's alive. My biggest regret; couldn't save my own brother….which, of course, brings to mind…House. Not gonna make the same mistakes with him—but I almost did, didn't I?_

_Almost pushed him away—or, almost let him push me away. Not sure which…does it matter? End result's the same._

_Foreman did a good job explaining what it is I give House, why this friendship works for House; wonder why I've never let myself examine why it works for me…or… if it works for me. And that's maybe why I've never given it any thought—maybe it doesn't work for me._

This thought, unbidden and accusing, unsettles him; suddenly this little trip's not so comfortable anymore. He's almost frightened to analyze the unwelcome thought, but he's here now, and he's not one to back away from a challenge.

_Wilson, you're the one who's always saying that even painful truths can bring comfort, yet you're reluctant to examine the most significant relationship you've got; just don't wanna go there, do ya? Might find out you really don't like the bastard; maybe he's just a charity case for you, ya know—the need to be needed, and all that rot. Or maybe it's just the challenge; everybody likes you, everybody's always liked you. But House doesn't like anybody. Did ya want to force him to like you, just to see if it could be done? Just a little personal challenge?_

He smiles, a little, to himself. He has to admit that, well, yeah, maybe that was a part of it—in the beginning. But he knows it's not why he's stayed around, so he discards that theory.

_So why have you stayed around, Wilson? It's sure not for his gratitude—you just said as much yourself, to Cuddy. And it's not for those regular helpings of abuse he throws at you, you're not a masochist. So what the hell is it?_

He's running out of theories, and it's making him nervous; maybe he really _doesn't_ get anything out of this stupid, screwed-up friendship. Maybe he just stays out of…pity. But no, that just doesn't feel right, even as he thinks it. He knows himself—and House—better than that.

And then—it hits him. All at once, it hits him, and it's right. _We're brothers. No, not my second chance to redo things from a decade ago; not even a replacement. Just, my brother in his own right. _

It all fits now. When things are going well, you don't question it; it's just family. When things aren't going well, you _have_ to question it, eventually, because it's family. And when you do question it, and the answers are…painful, it's just human nature to resent it, to _want_ to turn away. But you don't. He won't. Because it's House. Because he's family.

Wilson stretches, rises from the lounge. _And I thought House's couch was uncomfortable. _He walks over to House and Cuddy; he likes what he sees on the monitors. And he likes what he hears from Cuddy; she's just finished telling House how she admires his courage for agreeing to go through with this.

Cuddy looks up at Wilson's approach, says, "I like this, it's…nice. Different. A real change, being able to talk to him without being interrupted, insulted, leered at, and walked out on. I could get used to this, but…I don't want to. He may be an idiot with the social skills of a river rock, but he's _our_ idiot." She leans toward House and whispers, "Hurry back."

Wilson puts a hand on her shoulder. "Enjoy it while you can, we'll be moving into the home stretch in a few hours. How's he doing?"

Cuddy gives him report, leaves to get some rest herself. "Okay, House," Wilson says. "It's you and me. Just had a revelation—you might be interested. Like it or not—and sometimes I really _don't_ like it at all—we're family, you and I. Brothers. And best friends on top of that. That means we're stuck with each other for the long haul. And for what it's worth, buddy, you need to remember that even when we don't _like_ our family, we never stop caring about them…and worrying—ever. So deal, okay?"

House, of course, sleeps peacefully through Wilson's epiphany, and so doesn't notice that Wilson-- anxious, worried James Wilson-- actually looks at peace with the world, and with himself, as he conducts the next assessment.


	25. Chapter 24: Blip, Redux

**A/N: **_This chapter is my present to all of you who have put up so patiently with chapters of deep character analysis, and reviewed so kindly, while awaiting the angst. Enjoy the gift._

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: Blip, Redux

Wilson is seated at House's desk, listening to the rain. It's 5:10 Sunday morning, and an impossibly long day stretches out before him. He appreciates the rain and the pre-dawn blackness; somehow it reinforces the air of safe isolation and privacy he's tried to create for House in this room, for this weekend.

Wilson had started titrating down the morphine at 4:00am, and it's running now at 35mg. House is beginning to move up to level _2_ on the sedation scale. He's still somewhat difficult to rouse, but Wilson's seen him move his legs slightly a couple of times, and he's turning his head on the pillow. He appears comfortable, and as far as Wilson is concerned, he can stay at _2.5_ for at least another hour. No rush—House has earned this vacation from his pain.

Wilson gets up, walks to the window to watch the rain. A crack of thunder rumbles through, and lightning splits the sky. Wilson hears a sound behind him, and turns towards the recliner, thinking that House might have been disturbed by the thunder.

House is moaning, loudly, in his sleep. Wilson can tell that if the heavy sedation weren't suppressing his physical movements, he'd be thrashing, possibly screaming. He's over to the recliner in two steps--just in time to catch House as he bolts upright in the bed. _Damn, if this is pain, none of this worked. But… I don't think it's pain. _"What is it, House? Are you in pain? Talk to me; I'll help you."

House's eyes are wild, unfocused. He's trying to push Wilson away, trying to pull his arms free of Wilson's grasp. When the cardiac monitor starts shrieking in loud protest at House's elevated heart rate, the noise startles House badly; he's so frightened now that he's doing everything he can to get loose, trying to move his legs off the bed, struggling to get away from Wilson, away from--something. Wilson chances removing one hand from House's arm to reach out and silence the alarm.

Wilson's been trying as gently as possible to restrain House, to keep him from hurting himself. But the adrenalin-fueled, terror-stricken man has no such compunctions. As soon as Wilson releases his arm, he swings it up wildly, dislodging the line carrying the steady dose of morphine. Blood wells at the site, then spills down his arm. Wilson catches the arm quickly, and clamps his hand tightly over the IV site, keeps pressure on it; he doesn't know, right now, what the sight of the blood might do to House in his current state.

Now that the morphine line's out, the situation's become an emergency. Wilson wracks his brain trying to think of a way to get House's attention. He's got just one idea, and nothing to lose. "Greg! _Greg_! Greg, listen, it's Jimmy--I need you. _I need you, Greg!_"

He can probably count on the fingers of one hand (and have fingers left over) the times during their friendship when he's called House by his first name, and each of those previous times it's been meant to convey comfort or to express hurt. And he can't recall _ever_ saying to House, in words, "I need you." He's praying now that the combination of the name and the plea will be able to reach some area of House's mind unaffected by whatever's causing this stark terror.

And it works. House stops struggling, turns his head to look at Wilson. But wait--his eyes are still confused, still fearful. Despite the oxygen, he's gasping for breath. His skin is damp, and cold. His heart rate is in excess of 140 and climbing, his blood pressure's dropping rapidly—and he's looking _through_ Wilson, not _at_ him. _He's going into shock; God, House—what's happening to you?_

"House, I need you to listen to me very carefully, okay?" House doesn't respond, just continues staring through Wilson, and there's still no focus in his eyes, no indication that he's heard, or recognizes, his friend. But he's not fighting now; the tension's left his muscles. He's almost limp; Wilson's hands seem to be the only thing holding him up. _Okay, we have to deal with the shock first_.

Still holding House's arms, Wilson, trying to keep it simple, easy to understand, says calmly ,"House, lie down," carefully enunciating each word; he simultaneously attempts to ease House into a recumbent position. But he loses whatever tenuous connection House might have had with reality; House begins to battle again; he's shouting now.

"You took my leg! You said the deal was off! _Why_ are you back? You can't have--" And then, in the middle of it, House's eyes close, his head droops. He's mumbling something unintelligible, but Wilson is able to make out "no amputation." _Wait a second; he's not hallucinating, you don't nod off in the middle of a hallucination—he's not even awake! He's dreaming._

"_HOUSE!_" Wilson yells, "House, wake up!" He shakes House as roughly as he dares.

House lifts his head, has trouble keeping it upright. But he opens his eyes; they're bleary, but not wild, and this time he's trying hard to focus on Wilson's face. "Jimmy,... you're here…." His voice is faint. "Whassa matter? Why…wake…me?"

"Sorry about that. It's okay, though. I'm gonna help you lie down now, just relax." Wilson gently lowers House back down in the bed; this time House acquiesces drowsily to the movement. "You had a really bad dream; that's all. Everything's all right now. You're safe. Just a dream." House's eyes, which had been almost closed, fly open again, and Wilson sees panic.

"My leg!"

Wilson smiles reassuringly at him, quickly moves the tangled blanket aside, says firmly, "It's right here, House, look."

House looks down at his right leg and smiles. "Nasty dream…" he whispers, his voice trailing off as his eyes start to close again.

All the alarms have silenced themselves as House's vital signs are gradually returning to normal, and now the quiet in the room is profound. Wilson takes the opportunity to pull in a few deep breaths, let the adrenalin drain from him. When he's feeling calmer, he speaks gently.

"House, sorry to do this to ya, buddy, but I need you to stay with me a minute here. We've had a little…incident…with the drip. I need to get it restarted pretty quickly here, is that all right?"

House doesn't open his eyes. "'Course, Jimmy…veins…outta…my ears…." He tries to lift his arm to give to Wilson. "sorry…made a mess…"

Wilson swallows down hard on a sob. "You didn't make a mess, House, you didn't do anything wrong, okay?"

"Din't?... muss be… losin' my… touch…" House tries to grin.

Wilson blinks rapidly, to clear the tears away so he can see to insert the new cannula. As he ties the tourniquet and swabs the site, he says, "Okay, it's okay, just a quick little prick here and we'll have you and your happy juice reunited in no time. Don't move your arm, bud, we've gotta get this done. Then I'll let you get back to sleep."

Somehow, Wilson manages to slide the cannula in and restart the drip. Somehow, he manages to get a pressure dressing on the old site, sponge away the blood, change the gown. Somehow, he gets through a thorough physical assessment, all the while murmuring assurances to House.

Somehow, he achieves the perfect balance between Dr. Wilson ministering to the patient, and Jimmy supporting his friend. And, finally, somehow, he manages to call Cuddy, and tell her, in a voice that would almost pass for normal, that he needs a little break, no hurry, sorry to wake her, whenever she can get here. Just a little break.

He hangs up the phone and goes back to House, who seems restless. He's positioned on his right side, and apparently asleep, but every couple of minutes he's making the same motion—left hand moves across his body, and down. Wilson wonders briefly if the catheter had been tugged during the struggle and is causing him discomfort, but as he moves the sheet aside to check, House makes the motion again; Wilson can see now that he's bringing his hand over to his right leg, but not, apparently, to ease pain. As soon as the fingers make contact with the leg, the hand relaxes and retreats.

"Aw, House, it's still there—your leg's still there." He's stunned that House is aware enough to have purposeful movement; it shouldn't be possible. _That's how bad his fear is—it's stronger than the sedation. Incredible. _Wilson has an idea. "I'm gonna turn you now; we're gonna go to your left side for a little while, see if that's more comfortable." He carefully rearranges the pillows, slowly rearranges House's body so that he's lying on his left. Then he picks up House's right hand and places his arm gently along the ruined thigh, and House smiles, allows himself to finally relax, lets the morphine pull him under again.

It's not even three full minutes later, though, when Wilson sees House start. His arm has fallen to his side, and he's trying to get it back to the leg. Wilson returns his arm to its position, and makes a decision. House is so weak; the desperate struggle of the dream has sapped the last of whatever thin reserves he'd had. He's got to sleep. Wilson draws up a bolus of 5mg morphine and injects it into the line.

House sighs as the drug hits, and Wilson does too. He collapses into the chair, haggardly rests his forehead on the arm of the recliner. _Just for a minute…._He's getting ready to lift his head, needs to get a current set of vitals to go with the morphine bolus, when he feels a light touch in his hair. He opens his eyes, startled, and realizes that it's House.

_Maybe I'm the one who's dreaming!_ _He shouldn't be able to move... _But then, the hand makes a weak, awkward patting motion on his head. He turns his head slowly towards House, and he sees him struggle to get his eyes open halfway, watches as he fights so desperately to hold them open so that he can meet Wilson's eyes.

"'S'okay, Jimmy," House whispers, so faintly that it's almost like an unvoiced thought in Wilson's mind. He strains to hear as House, with superhuman effort, continues to speak; "We're safe…s'okay…I'm…here…." The weary blue eyes close then, and Wilson feels the hand resting on his head grow heavy and still; House has finally, truly, found his way back to the quiet, comfortable place inside the medication, and, for a while at least, he's found his own peace.

Wilson doesn't move yet; he can't—he's overcome by the extraordinary gift House has given. _He comforted me; he overcame weakness and sedation to do it, he overcame himself to do it, and he wanted to comfort me._ He allows the warm weight of House's hand resting on his head, the enormity of what House has done, to continue to soothe him.

And that is how Cuddy finds them, five minutes later, when she unlocks the door and enters.


	26. Chapter 25: Weak

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: Weak

At Cuddy's entrance, Wilson slowly takes the hand that's resting on his head, puts it carefully back on the leg. Before he even looks over at Cuddy, he spends a minute studying House's face. _He's well and truly out now; still looks so weak—that nightmare really cost him. _

Cuddy has been taking this opportunity to study Wilson's face; _he looks like he's just been through hell and back, _she thinks, _and he's so tired his hands are shaking._

When Wilson turns to her, instinct sends her across the room to him, and she puts her hands around his arms and gazes appraisingly, compassionately, at him. She knows, right away, that this is not merely the fatigue that comes with broken, meager sleep; he's ready to collapse.

"I want you to give me report on House, and then I want you to lie down. Whatever it is that happened can wait."

He tries to protest, but she cuts him off, and she's leading him to the lounge while she speaks. "All I need to know right now are the medical facts. All _you_ need to know is that _you_ are going to rest." He doesn't seem quite aware that she's already managed to get him to sit down on the lounge, but as she swings his legs up, he protests.

"I appreciate the offer, but it's not gonna happen. Just give me 30 minutes to not be…the responsible adult, okay? That's all I need. I just started the downward titration a couple of hours ago, this is a critical time; he needs me."

"No…" Cuddy says, slowly. "He needs a physician to titrate the morphine and monitor him closely. And I'm the Dean. Of Medicine. At a teaching hospital. Most people might say that qualifies me to handle it."

"Cuddy, no, I've gotta be awake, I've gotta be accessible to him if he--"

She cuts him off. "Just for an hour. And you'll be a hell of a lot _less_ accessible to him, for a hell of a lot _longer_, if you force me to sedate you. Choice is yours, what'll it be?"

"Cuddy, don't _do_ this. Please. I'm fine, and I can't—"

"Hmm, yeah, 2mg of Ativan, and then you'll miss _all_ the fun. House'll wake up before _you_ do."

She's smiling as she says it, but her eyes tell Wilson that it's not an idle threat; there's no room for negotiation. He opens and closes his mouth several times, starting and discarding new arguments, but Cuddy's got her arms crossed now, and she's tapping her foot. He gives up, sighs in resignation. "You win. But only an hour." He begins to give her report.

When he finishes giving her the facts and starts to tell her the details of the dream, Cuddy interrupts him again. "Shut up, Wilson. It can wait an hour."

Cuddy has absolutely no intention of waking Wilson in an hour—she's thinking more like three. But she's not going to tell him that, and chance upsetting him even more. So she orders him to close his eyes as she pulls the blanket over him, then moves quietly to House's bedside.

House, too, looks bad. He's sleeping, his vitals are good, he's comfortable. But his face is drawn, he looks pale and fragile. Cuddy knows that whatever happened had to have been horrible, for both of them. She hasn't seen House look this bad since the infarction, and she's never seen Wilson look as close to the edge as he does now.

---

The next two hours pass calmly, and Cuddy is pleased. The downward titration is going well; as of now, 8:00am, she's got him down to 20mg. He's easier to rouse, and he's moving both legs comfortably. The only problem had occurred when she'd roused him during assessment, and his hand had inadvertently found the bruise on his sternum.

She'd thought, for a moment, that the pain would actually wake him. But he'd just hitched in a sharp, short breath, sighed, and moved his hand away from the bruise. _I guess, all the things he puts up with physically, that's really small stuff for him. Everything's relative, _she thinks. The thought that something which would be agony for anyone else, just doesn't really make a difference in House's world, makes her sad.

_Okay, House, maybe I've been misjudging you, maybe been a little too critical about the way you handle things with the leg. Maybe I have no right to judge the level of your pain. Maybe I've been…wrong. And maybe I should actually apologize when you're awake. But that would just piss you off, wouldn't it? _So she whispers, "I'm sorry, House; I've been wrong."

She walks over to the desk and sits down, looking over at Wilson. He hasn't moved at all since he'd finally fallen asleep. Even in sleep, she notes, his face looks worried.

_I pray this works, _she thinks. _If it doesn't, it might kill both of them. If it works, though, we've saved House for a while, and _ _Wilson__ will be able to live with himself again. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to look them both in the eye, and not feel so damned responsible every day. Maybe. _


	27. Chapter 26: Awakenings

**A/N:** _Hey, YOU—yeah, you know who you are—the bunny isn't here; locked the cage, threw away the key…. _

_Okay, kiddies, so sorry, just a wee brainblip; no worries, I've taken my medication! ;-) On with it, then…. _

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: Awakenings

Cuddy doesn't _want _to awaken Wilson; he hasn't even changed position on the lounge, and the anxious set to his face has just started to ease, but it's 9:00am—he's going to be annoyed that she'd slipped in the extra two hours--and while he's normally a gracious man, she doesn't want to push her luck. She approaches the lounge.

" Wilson?" She puts a hand on his shoulder. "James?" His eyes fly open, and he's instantly alert.

"What is it? Is it House?" He's up and moving toward House's side before he finishes the question.

"He's fine, relax; I titrated down to 15mg just before I woke you. How do _you_ feel?"

"Better, thanks—amazing that an hour can make--" He's just noticed that, while it's still raining heavily, it's _much_ too light outside to be just 7:00am. Confused, he looks down at his watch, then up at Cuddy. "Could you please tell me what time it is?" he asks her pleasantly.

"Well, would you look at that! Seems to be 9:00!" she responds brightly, matching the bland innocence of his tone.

He momentarily considers being angry, then decides on amused instead. After all, House _is_ doing well, and Cuddy had acted out of what she thought was a valid concern for Wilson; how can he be upset about that? "Ahh!" he says. "Thought for a minute there that my watch was running fast; good to know there's nothing wrong with it."

She smiles sheepishly at him. "You needed the sleep. Forgive me? Not that it matters, I'd have done it anyway."

"But _you _said an hour; I trusted you!" He's mildly indignant.

Cuddy glances over at House, then back to Wilson, mischief in her eyes. "First law of The House Theory of Humanity: _Everybody lies. _Surprised you missed that one. You're only annoyed because _I_ managed to pull one over on _you_."

He laughs. "You're right. And yes, you're forgiven--not that it matters, of course. So, tell me what I missed."

Cuddy picks up the chart and hands it to him. "Not much, happy to say. As I said, he's at 15mg now, but it's been only a few minutes, no changes yet. The O2 is down to 2 liters; sats are staying at 96, 97 percent. He's had a few spontaneous movements, mostly involving his leg. He's been trying to rub it, I think, although he doesn't _appear_ to be experiencing any acute pain."

"He's just checking to make sure we haven't amputated it yet," Wilson says dryly. When she looks at him, shocked, he says, "Ready to hear about that dream-that-can-wait-an-hour-or-three _now_?"

Wilson starts at the beginning, and tells her everything. "It was frightening to watch, can't imagine how he felt, living it. For the first time in my life, I think I _really_ understand the expression 'scared to death.' If I'd had Versed available, I would've used it, a little retrograde amnesia sounded like a great idea at the time. But now, I'm glad I didn't; if he remembers what happened once he's awake, that could be a good thing, too. Now that he's subconsciously acknowledged his biggest fear, a _conscious_ acknowledgement might be healthy."

Cuddy thinks this over. "He's already said a thousand times that we tried to take his leg six years ago; still angry about it, too. He 'acknowledges' it on an almost daily basis—I'm usually on the receiving end of it. How much more 'acknowledgement' can _any_ of us handle?"

"You just said that he's still _angry_ about it, Cuddy; you know that certainly doesn't indicate acceptance—and you can't accept something you haven't yet acknowledged. Remember the five stages of grief? He did the denial thing right up front; he was convinced that reopening the artery would restore full use of the leg. He even rejected his own medical knowledge, because it wasn't giving him the answers that he wanted."

He pours himself a cup of coffee from the carafe Cuddy's had delivered. "And then, when he finally agreed to physical therapy, he was bargaining—'_I'll work harder than anyone's ever worked, just give me my mobility back._' " Wilson remembers that stage well; House had aimed all his vitriol at Wilson when the PT hadn't worked; it had been ugly.

He shakes his head at the memory. "And depression and anger were continuous themes throughout. They still are; he's never moved past them. There are documented cases of people _willing_ themselves into death while in the depression stage; that's one of the reasons why I've decided to consult Dickinson. He doesn't know House, doesn't know his history or his…mmm… current circumstances. We need some objectivity--you and I can't provide that for him."

"There you go with the understatement again," Cuddy observes.

Wilson continues, "I'm hoping… there's some way we might be able to shepherd him through the anger, the depression, so that he'll finally be able to reach acceptance. Maybe it can't be done, and then _we'll_ have to accept _that_. But if he could just be…at peace… with the way things are, then we could at least lessen the psychological components of the physical pain. I think it's worth a try. Nothing to lose at this point, really."

"It all sounds nice and neat. Simple, even." Cuddy says, "which is why it _doesn't_ sound like House."

Wilson smiles. "Yeah, I know. Just comes down to this; it's been well over six years, and he's still grieving… Oops—vitals time—_if_ I can trust this damned watch." He steals a sidelong glance at Cuddy, who is, of course, rolling her eyes. _Something predictable, almost comforting about that eye-roll…. _

House looks more comfortable than he has in almost seven years. His posture in the bed is normal; no curling, no guarding. Even his hands are relaxed as Wilson reaches for a pulse. "House, I know you can hear me in there. Just want you to know, we're in the home stretch now. You're at 15mg, and it's all good. Gonna leave you there for another hour, we're gonna do this slow, try and let you recupe a bit from that little pre-dawn horror flick of yours." He opens the gown to check lung sounds, winces when he sees the bruise. "Sternum doesn't seem to be bothering him much," he says to Cuddy.

"Oh, he found the bruise during my last assessment," she answers. "You're right—doesn't seem to really impress him, guess when your daily pain scale runs at the 8 to 10 level, it only rates a 2." They exchange a rueful glance.

House stirs as Wilson finishes up, turns easily onto his right side, settles back into sleep quickly.

"You know what was so amazing about the whole dream thing?" Wilson says as he checks the IV sites, "It _wasn't _that he managed to break about ten rules of physiology by fighting off that much sedation. It wasn't that now we really know just how deep his fear for that leg is. And it isn't even that he took about five years off _my_ life; if I actually added up how many years I've lost because of him, I'd have to fall over dead right now." He shakes his head.

"Cuddy, he reached _out. _House reached out to another human being—not because it was required, or because it was polite, not because it was the right thing to do. He _felt_ something, and he allowed himself to act on it. And that just…gives me _hope_, real hope for the first time since the surgery, that the infarct didn't just…_break_ him inside, that there's still something good in there that can start growing again." Wilson becomes quiet as he relives the scene in his mind, and when he begins to speak again, it's clear to Cuddy that he's thinking aloud, doing his best to analyze what's happened.

"All that was important to him when the nightmare was over was that leg; it had to be tangible. Couldn't get him to relax 'til I finally put his arm on it. Yet he was willing to give up that security; he pulled the strength from God-knows-_where_ to reach out to me, take his hand off his leg. Sure, the lack of pain—wait, _the lack of pain! _Cuddy!" She stares at him; his expression is amazed, joyous. "It worked! We _did_ it! He went through that entire horrible ordeal—not _once_ did it trigger breakthrough pain. And he didn't believe the leg was there unless he could _touch_ it—he was afraid it wasn't there because _it wasn't hurting!" _

Wilson's laughing; impulsively he picks Cuddy up, spins around with her, plants a kiss on her cheek—and now she's laughing, too.

Their celebration is interrupted, however, when a sleep-thick voice from the other side of the room says, "_Hey!_ Patient trying to rest over here. Sick people need sleep. This is a hospital, quiet zone, it's a rule, I checked. Can't you people follow _rules?_"

Wilson turns to Cuddy. "He's _baaack_!


	28. Chapter 27: Quiet Zone

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: Quiet Zone

House is glaring at them—well, _trying_ to glare, anyway. It would be much easier to fix them with his steely gaze, he decides, if his eyelids would follow his command to stay in the fully upright position.

"Welcome back, House." Wilson says. "Though it's a little premature. You should be pretty much out of it for another hour, maybe two."

"If you two would save your rousing song and dance numbers for the stage," House mutters, "that would _so_ not be a problem." And he proves it by nodding off immediately.

Cuddy and Wilson grin at each other, go over to the desk and sit. When Cuddy speaks, her voice is hushed. "So where do we go from here?"

"It'll take a couple hours for him to wake up like he means it," Wilson says in the same low tone. "When he's alert, we resume the Vicodin at the therapeutic dose, and then we pray that this lasts."

"No, I _know_ all that. I meant what'll we do about the Vicodin? He's still an addict, and that's still a problem."

"Don't kill the diabetic," Wilson whispers thoughtfully.

Cuddy wonders if Wilson has well and truly lost it. "Was that supposed to be an answer to my question? Or just an indication that you could use a little more sleep?" she asks him.

"He said something to me last month--made no sense, just figured at the time it was one of those non sequiturs he likes to throw out; knock me off balance, get me off his case. We were discussing the Vicodin--well, _I_ was _trying_ to discuss the Vicodin--it was more of a monologue, really... And just before he stormed out of my office, he said 'You'd kill a diabetic.' He sounded...bitter. I didn't even _try_ to figure that one out, but it was such an...interesting statement... it stayed with me. And I've got it now, and he's right."

"And?" Cuddy prompts; Wilson is so deep in thought, she's afraid he's forgotten she's here.

"He was trying to tell me that there's a difference between being _addicted_, and being _dependent_. A diabetic is dependent on insulin to function, to live. House is dependent on Vicodin to function. To _live_. If I were to judge a diabetic by the same standards I use to judge House, I'd want to take away the insulin. I'd kill the diabetic."

It's Cuddy's turn to be thoughtful now. "That may be the most brilliantly constructed analogy I've ever heard. And it's the truth. So we lay off him about the Vicodin?"

"No, not by a long shot—we can't. But we do it differently from now on. I'll pay a lot more attention to the time interval on his scrips. If his intake starts climbing, we find out _why_. There are still things we can do—switch him to Percocet, or even Oxycontin if necessary. We monitor his liver function. We monitor his mental state just as closely. And...we listen. He tried to tell us for, what, four months? This time, we listen."

Cuddy nods, says "He's not gonna be happy with us watching him...he's gonna make our lives miserable..."

Wilson laughs quietly. "And we'll be able to tell the difference, _how_?"

"Good point," Cuddy smiles.

"There's this, too," Wilson continues. "I don't think he's going to be quite so...resistant...to our concern. Oh, he'll talk a good game, but he'll realize that this time around we're really hearing him. And big, bad Dr. Wilson is gonna be laying down a couple of non-negotiable ground rules." He grimaces at the thought of _that_ upcoming conversation.

"And, when the pain starts to become too much for him again—because it will—we repeat this procedure, 'cuz we've had so much fun this first time." He looks skyward.

"Sounds like a plan. But...I'm still worried. Odds are excellent this...dependence...will shorten his life..." Cuddy's eyes are sad.

"I know that, Cuddy—and so does he. But I'd rather he has some quality of life, and be around for the next thirty years, than that he's in intractable pain for the next forty...or until he decides that he can't deal with it...and then he's not around at all."

Wilson stands up. "It's 10:00am. Time to bring Sleeping Beauty up another level, gonna titrate him to 10."

And for the next few minutes, Wilson loses himself in caring for his patient as Cuddy thinks a very private prayer.


	29. Chapter 28: Negotiations

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: Negotiations

House wakes up, for real, during the 11:30am assessment. He keeps his eyes closed, works on keeping his breathing even as Wilson finishes auscultating his lungs, checks both IV sites, does something with the pump carrying the morphine.

"Ya know what's really cool about being a doctor?" Wilson says in a normal conversational tone. "If you _happen_ to have a stethoscope to someone's chest as they wake up, and if you're really, _really_ skillful, you can actually _detect_ the change in their breathing pattern from sleep to waking! Whaddaya think, House, cool, huh?"

House smiles and opens tired eyes. "Busted. And I didn't even get to hear anything juicy."

Cuddy walks over to the bed. She isn't certain how House wants to play this—she'll take her cue from him. She doesn't have to wait long.

"Cuddy! You're here; I'm touched! And you brought the twins; those two are getting bigger every day."

"Cute, House. So happy to see the lobotomy hasn't affected your enjoyment of the little pleasures in life."

"Little? Nothin' little 'bout those babies. Now, you _three_ get over here. I need some help getting' rid of all this paraphernalia, and I figure if we do this just right, the view oughtta be spectacular. For _both_ of us." Wilson shakes his head, smiling, as he walks over to the desk.

"House, I know this'll be a real challenge for you," Cuddy says, "But _try_, just this once, not to be stupid—you're not getting up, you're not going anywhere—got it?"

"Sorry, places to go, people to ignore—if you're really nice, I _might _even let you pull the cath." He lifts his eyebrows, smiles suggestively.

"House, I'm glad you're back with the program," Wilson interrupts in his best professional voice as he returns to the recliner, carrying a folder. "I need a second opinion on a patient—got a real problem."

House looks interested. "Listening. Shoot."

"Forty-five year old female, malignant melanoma left ankle. Had a wide-excision removal yesterday; damned resident nicked a nerve. Poor woman was in screaming pain, said she felt like her leg was on fire. Admitted her overnight, put her on a Dilaudid drip which we discontinued an hour ago. Now she wants to leave AMA, says she's gotta get home before her kids tear the place down."

"Send your common sense on that vacation to Tahiti, Jimmy? This one's so easy, even Cuddy here could handle it. You're the doctor—she's just the idiot you got stuck with. She stays. How tough was that?"

It takes House a full minute to realize that both his colleagues are just staring at him, arms folded, bemused expressions on their faces.

"Ooh. Ooooh. But you--she—me—I—but—" Cuddy's and Wilson's smiles are growing wider. "Oh, that was just _so_ wrong, on _so _many levels." He wags his finger at Wilson. "Jimmy, I'm impressed!"

"Hoist by his own petard!" Cuddy mutters to herself—she's enjoying this.

"You're still on the morphine, House. I've got it down to 5mg now, and it's gonna stay there for another couple hours. You had a rough time of it, not gonna take any chances." Wilson doesn't mention that House is a lot weaker than they'd expected; he'll figure that out on his own soon enough. "Just lie there quietly, enjoy the extra two hours. And, in case you haven't noticed—it worked."

House's eyes widen slowly as he carefully—and then _not_ so carefully—moves his right leg around, bends it, rubs the thigh. Wilson and Cuddy turn in tandem away from the recliner, suddenly very busy at the desk, their backs to House as they exchange smiles. Wilson gives House a couple more minutes' privacy to process the news before he turns back to the bed.

House's eyes are closed; there's a grin on his face—and one small tear, easy to miss, leaking from the corner of his eye. Wilson doesn't miss it. "Glad you're pleased. Pretty gratifying, gotta say."

House opens his eyes, glances a brief, wordless thanks at Wilson. Then he starts to remove the nasal O2.

"Leave it, House." As House continues to remove the tubing, Wilson tries again. "Leave it, or I'll super-glue it to your face." House finally lowers his hand.

Next he starts to worry the monitor leads on his chest. "These are really buggin' me. Can we at least—" He winces sharply; he's found the sternal bruise. "What the _hell?_" He pulls open the top of the gown and peers down. He looks up into his friend's guilty, crestfallen face. _Same friend who's killing himself making sure I live a few more years..._

"Sometimes," House says slowly, quietly, "sometimes we have to do medical procedures, _necessary_ medical procedures, and the results are…unpleasant for the patient. But that doesn't negate the _need_ for the procedure." Now it's Wilson's turn to look a thanks at him. "But really, Jimmy, you woulda gotten _much_ quicker results just threatening to take away my GameBoy!" When Wilson and Cuddy both dissolve into laughter, he's pleased with himself.

"I'll remember that, should we ever find ourselves in that situation again," Wilson says wryly. "And no, _nothing_ comes off, _or_ out, until you're off the morphine, so do us all a favor and give it up."

House gazes imploringly at Cuddy. "Don't look at _me_," she says. "I'm just second chair here, and besides, I concur with Dr. Wilson."

"Cut it out, House," Wilson says. "If you keep it up, I'm gonna forget to deflate that little balloon holding the Foley in when I yank it out. Operative word here being _yank_."

"Ouch, Jimmy, no need to get nasty." House pouts, crossing his arms—gingerly—across his chest.

"Aw, cheer up," Cuddy tells him. "I'm gonna go arrange for you to have a week off, seeing as how you completed _all_ those charts and everything." She rolls her eyes at him. The time off hadn't been in the plan—but neither had House's coming out of this so frail.

"So I wasn't hallucinating about the charts; no one else knows what happened?"

"And Dr. Wilson," Cuddy continues as if House hadn't spoken, "I've decided you need a little time off to work on writing up that research grant you've been talking about. I figure about a week'll do it."

She and Wilson smile at each other, giving House the time he needs to figure out that his privacy's been protected; he won't have to face questions, or pity, on his return.

"Dr. Cuddy, would you mind leaving us alone for a while? I need to have a word with my patient," Wilson says after a moment.

"Of course; I need to go arrange for that time off anyway." She looks again at House, and tries not to feel pained at how wrung-out he looks. "_Good luck_," she whispers to Wilson on her way out.

Once she's gone, Wilson takes a seat next to the recliner. "I'm not gonna _like_ this, am I?" House mumbles, as he turns his face away and closes his eyes.

"This can wait, if you'd like to take a little nap. Just rest; it's okay. I'll be right here when you wake up."

"I'm sure you _will_. Which is exactly why we might as well get whatever it is over with now." House opens his eyes and turns around to face Wilson. "Listening," he says. His expression as he gazes at Wilson is carefully neutral, but Wilson can see defiance already creeping into the weary blue eyes. "Spill it, Jimmy."


	30. Chapter 29: Battle

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: Battle

"Don't look like you're in front of a firing squad without a blindfold, House. Just a few things to talk over, get straight. That's all." Wilson feels bad already—House looks so drawn, so _vulnerable_ right now. _He needs to be sleeping. But he has a right to know how this is gonna play out._

House looks almost amused. "You haven't noticed, after all these years, that these little 'talks' rarely end well? I haven't been a captive audience since the infarct, though—I _like_ being able to make a dramatic exit. Not gonna be happenin' today, I guess." He sighs.

Wilson smiles. "Why do you think we're doing this while you're still hooked up? If I'd wanted to give a soliloquy, I'd find an empty room. Or knock you out again."

"Yeah…that 'knocking out' part…might not spare me the soliloquy. Something real interesting about level _3_; ya don't read about it much from the patient's point of view; it was kind of… interesting, getting to live it...I heard you earlier, you know. The 'brothers' thing. All that family crap."

"Uh-huh," Wilson says, tentatively. _He thinks it's crap?_

"I just wanted to let you know, you're a little slow on the uptake, Jimmy. I figured all that out _years_ ago. Second time I opened my door and there you were, looking all pathetic, needing to bunk on my couch again. Yup, knew it right then. Remember like it was yesterday. Always wanted a little bro, someone to keep in line. Glad _you_ finally figured it out, though."

Wilson is more than touched by this, but their rules say he's not allowed to show it. So instead, he asks, "Remember anything else?"

"Bits and pieces." House thinks he knows what Wilson is asking. "I remember most of that cheap-budget horror flick this morning." His mouth twists as he thinks about it. "That one's destined to become a cult classic for sure... Couldn't have been fun for you."

Wilson knows that this last line is House-speak for, "_Are you okay with it_?" so he answers in the same language. "Just real happy I was there; no one should have to watch that kind of movie alone."

"Yeah, and you did really good, Jimmy. _Really_ good. Couldn't ask for better company. But remember the popcorn next time, 'k?"

"You've got it." They're both silent a moment, each reliving their own memories of the nightmare.

House finally breaks the silence. "Still listening. Still waiting for you to spill."

When Wilson raises his head, meets his eyes, House can read the determination there. _I knew I wasn't gonna like this._

"In a couple hours, I'll disconnect you from all this junk. You'll take your Vicodin, we'll wait a while, I'll take ya home. And things will change."

"Change…how?" House asks, suspiciously.

"Hear me out, okay? I've given this a lot of thought, and I need to just say it—so please, save your comments, questions, and applause for the end, all right?" He smiles weakly. House doesn't speak, just stares at him, waiting.

"First off—I'm moving back in for a couple of months. I'm not gonna ask you if that's okay—it's gonna _have_ to be. But if you can see your way clear to putting up with it, with _me_, I'll _consider_ not bringing the blow dryer—no promises." House doesn't smile, just keeps that unnerving stare fixed on Wilson's face.

"I'm gonna cook, and you're gonna eat. You must've lost 25 pounds, maybe more, in the last few months. I cook. You eat. _And_ clean up." He looks at House, takes a deep breath; House hasn't started bellowing yet, maybe they'd be okay.

"This next one's a biggie, House. Really important. I made a big mistake for the last four, five months. I didn't listen to you. Maybe we could've prevented a lot of this if I'd listened, maybe not, doesn't matter now. So I'll be listening—but _you_ need to be talking. I know it's hard. Not asking you to be Oprah, turn 'sharing' into an art form, or anything—but you've gotta _talk_ to me, let me know what's going on with you physically."

House shifts uncomfortably in the bed, but remains silent.

"I don't care _how_ you let me know something's wrong, something's changing, just so you let me know. Just tell me, make a joke, hell—couch it as an _insult_, I don't care. I'll translate it into English, and I'll get on it. I…decided I don't want to kill the diabetic, okay?"

He sees House's eyes widen at the reference, knows he's got his attention. "I'm switching the Vicodin; staying with the hydrocodone, getting rid of the acetaminophen. We need to raise your therapeutic dose of the hydrocodone _without_ destroying your liver. We'll start you at 80mg a day. Same stuff you're on now, higher dose, just with aspirin instead. We can go as high as 120mg a day, if we need to. But you're gonna need to tell me as soon as the 80mg stops controlling the pain. And you'll have the lab pull a liver profile every three months. The results will be sent to my office."

He locks eyes with House. "If I'm going to be your physician, I'm _going to be_ your physician. Not just a scribble on a prescription."

House finally speaks. "I didn't _ask_ you to be my physician. You got a problem with my scrips, fine—I'll get Chase to do it. Not a prob, wouldn't wanna put you out."

Wilson can tell he's angry—and hurt. "House, you _need_ a doctor. I didn't _ask_ for this, but now that I've…won the role by default, I guess, we're gonna do it right."

"You're just not getting it, are ya, Jimmy? I'm not looking for a doctor; I can handle this myself, got the letters after my name, and everything. Thought you were my _friend_, though. Didn't realize my scrips were such an _ethical dilemma _for you. Didn't know it was such a _hardship_, being friends with me. Tell ya what, make it _easy_ for you. I'm releasing you from all your heavy responsibilities. You're not my doctor. _Not_ my friend. I'll find another doctor; never needed a friend in the first place. Now call Cuddy, and get out—you're upsetting the _patient_, and you're such a _fine, compassionate_ physician I know you wouldn't wanna do that."

Wilson is up, pacing the room. He's too angry to be hurt, too upset to weigh his words. "Do yourself a favor, House—when you find that other doctor. Get a _stupid_ one this time, one who'll just let you talk circles around him with your brilliance, while he smiles and scribbles the magic letters on his prescription pad. _And I'll start working on your eulogy_."

Wilson can't believe what he's just heard himself say. He turns, stricken by his own vicious words, to see how much fresh damage he's inflicted on his wounded friend. The apology is already in his eyes, and forming on his lips.

House is regarding him impassively—face blank, eyes hooded and unreadable.

"Oh, my God. House, I…I didn't mean that. I'm sorry." He returns to the chair by the bed, sinks into it, lowers his head into his hands. _I blew it_, he thinks, miserably. _He'll never forgive this…._

And House, still unreadable, states flatly, "Call Cuddy. And then go to hell."


	31. Chapter 30: Peace Talk

CHAPTER THIRTY: Peace Talk

"What the _hell_ am I doing here, House? And why are you alone; where's Wilson?" Cuddy is confused, and angry, and it's the third time she's asked the questions—she'd been a lot more polite the first two times. When Wilson had called and asked her to come up, she'd been working on staffing to cover the time off they'd need for House to recover. Wilson had said no emergency, House just wanted to speak with her. So here she is, she's been here a couple of minutes, Wilson's gone, and House isn't talking. He hasn't even looked at her yet. So she sits. And waits.

As she's about to ask House the same two questions for the fourth time, he finally makes eye contact with her, and speaks.

"Wilson's off the case." That's all he says, but his eyes are telling her the rest of it; they're aching with hurt, the kind that even morphine won't ease.

So Cuddy waits some more. _He's not gonna talk until he's ready. Maybe I should've insisted on staying when Wilson spoke with him; I knew it wasn't gonna be pleasant, just figured they'd work it out somehow, they always do. Damn you, House, just talk to me, let someone help you, okay?_

Finally, House speaks. His voice is weak; it's clearly an effort. "I sent him away. He wanted to be my babysitter—no go. He thinks I can't be trusted to handle my own life, my own—" He indicates the right leg with an angry sweep of his arm. "I don't need that. I don't need _him_."

Only Cuddy would be able to hear the hurt, rejected little boy behind those words, and she does, and she responds the only way she knows how, by forgetting the brilliant doctor in front of her, forgetting even the vulnerable patient in front of her. She responds, by instinct, to the frightened child who's lost his best friend.

"House, I know you're hurting—"

He interrupts her angrily, "You don't—"

"Shut up, House. You've gotten so good at denying your feelings that you won't even take comfort when it's offered. I'm speaking here; you're listening. Got it?" She glares at him. "Answer me."

He cocks his head at her. "You _told_ me to shut up; I was just following orders."

"Then you picked a _fine_ time to break out of your usual pattern and start listening. I'll try this a little slower, purely out of consideration for your drug-addled mind. I'm going to tell you some things you need to know, and you're not going to just _hear_ me, you're going to _listen_ to me. _Got it_?"

Despite himself, a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. "Yes ma'am, oh scary, dominant, boss-lady, sir."

Cuddy bites back her own smile. "Good. Now that _that's_ settled, where was I? Oh, yeah, your _feelings_. Emotions aren't a disease, House, you can't _cure_ them. You can pretend they don't exist, if you want to, but guess what? Then they come back and bite you on the ass. They're funny like that, forcing you to acknowledge 'em when you least expect it. And the longer you exile them to some locked room in your brain, the stronger they are when they break out."

Cuddy realizes it's 12:30pm, and since she's apparently inherited the patient, she says, "Just let that sink into your brain a minute while I play doctor here. Wilson'll kill me if I neglect you, just a quick assessment, and then back to it."

"Wilson doesn't care; I was just his bald-headed cancer kid for the weekend. Probably couldn't get a date or something."

Cuddy almost drops the bag of saline she's hanging to replace the one that's just about run dry. She takes a deep breath, finishes up, then pins House with her fury.

"Why, you insufferable _ass_. How. _Dare. _You. _How dare you?_ You know, House, you've always had 'blind insensitivity' down to an _art_, but you've outdone even _yourself _this time."

She stands over him, hands on hips, eyes flashing—even House has never seen her this furious. "Hey, Cuddy, take it _easy_. I only meant that Wilson's got a whole 'need to be needed' thing goin' on; he picked me for his current project. I'm just not interested, that's all; okay?"

"No, it is _not_ okay." She sees on the monitor that his respiratory rate's climbing; he's even paler than he was before. _Back it down, Lisa; you can get your point across without worsening his condition. Remember that little boy? Lost his best—his only—friend._

She forces herself to sit down, breathe deeply. When she speaks again, her voice is calm, almost gentle. "I'm gonna tell you some things that you don't know, but you _should_, and I'm also going to tell you some things that you could've figured out for yourself. Just close your eyes and listen. But don't fall asleep on me, okay?"

She watches as he gratefully closes his eyes, watches as the numbers on the monitor fall back to within normal limits. "First of all, just so it's out on the table, I care about you. Wilson cares about you. God only knows _why_ we do, but it's the truth, and you'll just have to accept it, like it or not. And we worry. But I don't have _anything_ on Wilson; he couldn't care about you more if you were family. You're vital to him, actually, the one _constant_ he has in his life, an anchor for him—and that gives you a responsibility. You've made it clear that you're not big on responsibility, but you can't shirk this one. I won't let you."

She touches his arm lightly, and he turns toward her, opens his eyes. She smiles, says "Close 'em; I'm not done. Now, that's the part you could've figured out for yourself if you didn't have a full-time job pushing people away, but hey, I'm happy to enlighten you. Not often I get to tell the great Dr. House _my_ diagnosis."

She sees him smile a bit at that. "Here's the part that you couldn't know. Wilson is not only the doctor we all wish we _were_, he's the friend we all wish we could _have_. He hasn't just taken care _of_ you this weekend; he's cared _for _you. In my entire career, I've never seen _any _patient have _all_ of their needs met during hospitalization—but I've been privileged to watch that happen over the last 40 hours. And he not only worried about _you_—he paged me when I was on my way home last night to tell me to go by your place to look after your stupid rat. So I fed it, but I _did_ draw the line at _socializing_ with it. Sorry about that." _And you don't need to know that I overcame a huge rat-based phobia to do it, either._

"What I'm trying to get you to see here is that he thought of _everything._ He talked to you as if you could hear him. He handled you as if you were a preemie. He insisted that you not miss one dose of eye drops, not one glycerin swab for your mouth. He advocated for you when I wanted to put you in the unit. He totally disregarded his own needs in favor of yours."

She sees House frown at that, and she knows he's listening. She rests her hand on his arm; he doesn't pull away. "He wouldn't rest until he made sure I knew everything about properly caring for you, right down to arranging that leg just the right way, not letting it get stiff, even how to set up the pillows. And after your dream this morning, he was ready to collapse; he could barely stand, his _hands_ weren't even steady anymore. And _still_ he refused to leave your side. I had to threaten to sedate him, and I had to _lie_ to him about the length of time he needed to rest."

House opens his eyes at that. His voice is anxious, worried—and he doesn't bother to try to hide it. "You threatened _sedation_? He was _that_ bad? Did he get any rest? Is he okay?"

Cuddy looks at him, hard. _Ah, I've gotten through!_ "Unlike another, less cooperative, physician on this staff, eventually _he_ follows orders. I made sure he got a few hours. He'll be fine. Now I've got a question for _you_. Did all that sound like a nice little Home Depot weekend project to you?"

"Go get him," he orders her. He realizes how it sounds, and amends it. "Please."

"I don't know where he is; you threw him out before I got here, remember?"

"If what you said is true—and I don't doubt that it is," House sighs, "you'll find him just outside. On the balcony."

Cuddy walks to the balcony doors and sees Wilson, just as House had said. It's still raining, and he's soaked, but there he is, as close to his ill friend as he can figure out how to be. She steps out, motions him over to House's side of the balcony, puts an arm around him, and ushers him in.


	32. Chapter 31: Détente

**A/N: **_Heartfelt thanks to Angelfirenze for steering me back to canon, and to AtreidesHeir for (inadvertently) providing the idea for the start of the three-way dialogue! And to everyone for your (kind) honesty concerning the first chap 29, and your subsequent patience with the revisions—again, my thanks. mjf_

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE: Détente

As Cuddy and Wilson enter the room, House looks over at Wilson and says roughly, "You look like hell. Cuddy must have some scrubs in her magic Mary Poppins bag over there," he indicates the supply cart with a tilt of his head. "Go dry off, get changed. Take your time—give us a minute."

Wilson doesn't respond, doesn't even really look at House. He just takes the scrubs that Cuddy hands him and leaves the room without speaking.

"Cuddy, you're my physician of record."

"Yeah, for all the good it does either one of us. You haven't seen me in _that_ capacity in years. You don't even come to me for your scrips, guess I'm harder to con than Wilson."

"So…would it bother you if he handled the day to day stuff? I'd let you keep the title; I know I'm a catch."

"_Bother_ me? I'd be ecstatic! Maybe he'll even be able to talk you into that employee physical you're only five years behind on. But why not bestow the esteemed title on him? Trust me; I'd _eventually_ recover from the crushing blow."

"Can't do that. Anything…big…ever happens, might need you to…make decisions. Don't wanna put him in that position."

"Gee, _thanks_, House, put _me_ there instead." But she understands, and nods her head. "Okay; consider it done."

Wilson returns then. His hair is damp, and unruly for once, and the House-sized scrubs swallow his smaller frame. Cuddy even notes bare feet peeking out from beneath the puddles of cloth.

_He looks so young, _she thinks. _Just hand him a teddy bear and he's ready for bed…. This isn't an office; it's not even a makeshift hospital room. It's a daycare center, and I'm the damned director! Oh, Lisa, suffer from 'babies on the brain' much? Shut up, clock. _

House regards Wilson, who's meeting his gaze straight-on. "Wilson, you're a moron."

"_House!"_ Cuddy explodes. "I wasn't expecting a chorus of _Kumbaya_, but you two could at least pretend to _like_ each other." Both of them are now studying opposite walls. "Or if that's too much, pretend you _know_ each other. House, this is Wilson. Wilson, House." She heaves an exasperated sigh, tosses her hands in the air.

Wilson turns to House. "Why do women have to be such _emotional_ people?"

"It's a whole different language, Jimmy. Don't try to figure it out; just when you think you get it, they lapse into this incomprehensible dialect—they call it 'PMS', I think."

Cuddy glares at them. "And why do _men_ have to be so stubborn, so…so… _obtuse_? You two are unbelievable!" _Guess I get to be the fall-girl here. _She smiles to herself—everything's going according to plan.

"Now, where was I when I was so rudely interrupted?" House asks rhetorically. "Ah, I remember—my insightful character assessment." He looks at Wilson and repeats, "You're a moron." Wilson notes that House's voice is weakening; he moves to the bedside chair so House won't have to try so hard.

"Why are you killing yourself for me? I'm not worth it." House states this flatly, as fact. Wilson knows that he's not fishing for kind words; he's asking the question because he's genuinely curious, and because he sincerely believes he's _not_ worth it.

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "Every time I'm sure I have it figured out, you throw me a curve ball. Which I drop. And then, I'm back to wondering why, myself. I only know that I do it because I _want_ to do it, and maybe that just has to be good enough. For both of us."

House's eyes are closed now; this conversation is costing him his small store of strength. But he's determined to continue. "Can you do…_this_…and come out of it alive?"

"House, I've survived three ex-wives; you're not that bad, I don't have to try to read your mind 'cuz you're pissed I left the toilet seat up, I don't have to write you a monthly check, I don't even have to remember your birthday. I think I can handle it." _As long as you come out of it alive, I'll be just fine._

"Then you're hired." It's almost a whisper now. But he's still fighting to stay awake; he seems almost fearful of sleep.

"As my first official act as your personal physician," Wilson says, keeping his voice light—but the tone firm— "I hereby decree that it's naptime in the land of House, where _I_ will stand guard against all devils and dragons and clinic patients and other scary creatures."

House smiles faintly. "And the Evil Witch, too?"

"I'm still here, House," Cuddy laughs. "But you're in luck; I need to go order your new and improved Vicodin from the pharmacy, and deal with a couple of pesky staffing issues. So I'm departing the kingdom right now. The next time you see me, you'll be getting ready to leave too. For an entire week; that should give you happy dreams."

He doesn't answer, and Cuddy and Wilson exchange a satisfied look when they see that he's asleep.

"Thanks, Cuddy," Wilson whispers to her. "I don't know how you fixed it, what you said to him, but…thanks."

She smiles. "Let's see if you're still thanking me about midway through this next week. You may be begging me to let you come back to work, and reminding me that _I'm_ his physician of record. We may have won this battle, but something tells me it's going to be a _very_ long war…."

"That's the plan," Wilson says. "I want this war to last at _least_ another thirty years. More, if we keep the battles interesting, and maybe let him win one or two, here and there."

"If anyone can pull this off, it's you," Cuddy assures him. "Just…don't let him get to you so much, okay?"

"I _could_ say the same to you. But we both know it's too late. He's…House. The rules are different, and they change every day. People who care about House are just…along for the ride."

"Yeah, and hanging on for dear life!" Cuddy laughs. "Look, you've only got about 45 minutes of peace left, and I want to have the new meds up here when you wake him. I'm gonna get going. You'll be okay?"

Wilson looks into Cuddy's warm, concerned eyes, looks over at House, safe and sleeping soundly. "For right now, Cuddy, I couldn't be better." And he means it.


	33. Chapter 32: House, Home

**A/N: **_It's been a good ride, kids—I'm sad to see it end. However, as many of you know, sequel's already in the works. My thanks to all for coming along on the journey. _mjf

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO: House, Home

When Cuddy returns to House's office with the meds, she notes that all the equipment's been discontinued, but House is still in bed, still sleeping. Wilson is sitting at the bedside, chin in hand, just watching him.

He stands, joins Cuddy at the desk. She hands him the new pill bottle. "I guess I'll wake him up, get these in him," Wilson says, looking at the bottle. He sounds reluctant.

"Everything okay?"

"No… yeah… I don't know." Wilson looks over at House, considering. "He woke up about twenty minutes ago, let me d/c everything. But when I told him he could trade in the gown for real clothes, he said '_later_' and nodded off again." Wilson pours a cup of water from the carafe, opens the bottle and pours two into his hand.

"Nothing wrong there," Cuddy says. "We know he's debilitated; he's still sedated, too. We weren't expecting handsprings."

Wilson still looks worried. "I know. It's not that. If he were an 'official' patient, I'd be keeping him another 48 hours. He needs rest, observation."

"It's not like he's going home to an empty apartment, Wilson. He's taking his personal physician with him."

"But that's just it." He lowers his voice to almost a whisper. "He's not strong enough to be left alone. We didn't expect this; we're not set up for it. I can't even leave him alone long enough to get to the grocery store. And believe me, there's nothing in that apartment except beer and peanut butter. Maybe a science experiment or two in the back of the fridge from when I last cooked."

"Covered." Cuddy smiles. "I'm having groceries delivered there now; the super agreed to let 'em in." _Almost sounds like he's making up excuses._

"Thanks—glad one of us is thinking. I'm just worried, I guess, and _way_ too tired."

"And… he hasn't figured out yet that he's weak as a kitten, and you're not expecting him to react…well…to that."

Wilson smiles tiredly. "Bingo." He heads over to the recliner. "House. House, wake up. Your Super-Vic is here."

House stirs, opens his eyes while Wilson raises the head of the recliner. He tries to hand House the pills and the water. House takes the pills, ignores the proffered cup.

"Full glass of water, House. Every dose." House glares at him. "Okay, _most_ of the time." The glare doesn't waver. Wilson sighs. "Occasionally."

House finally nods shortly, takes the cup. Cuddy catches Wilson's eye, draws an imaginary tally mark in the air on what is obviously House's side of the battlefield. Wilson scowls, humorously, at her.

"You wanna go back to sleep, House? We've still got at least a couple of hours before we can leave." Wilson takes the cup from House. _Almost empty_, he notes with satisfaction.

"Let's just go home, Jimmy, okay? Put on a movie, kick back. Not that House and Wilson's Excellent Adventure hasn't been fun and all. I'm just ready for it to be over." He's uncharacteristically subdued.

Before Wilson can veto the idea, Cuddy says, "I don't see why not. There's really nothing else he needs to stay here for; you can monitor him at home." House shoots her a look that's almost grateful.

"I don't get a vote?" Wilson asks.

"No!" both Cuddy and House answer in unison.

"Get him dressed, get him out of here, Wilson. Have you got extra shoes in your office?" she asks, looking pointedly at Wilson's bare feet. When he nods, she says, "Okay, I'll get those for you. I'll give you ten minutes."

"I can get _myself _ready," House mutters irritably. "I've been dressing myself for almost a year now, and I got that whole shoelace thing down last week."

"You're a little…more tired… than we expected, House, that's all." Wilson says cautiously. "And all the sedation hasn't cleared yet. All Cuddy meant was, you might need a little help."

"Just bring me my clothes." Cuddy retrieves his clothing and hands it to him. She glances, sympathetically, at Wilson, and departs.

Wilson forces himself to sit down at the desk, across the room, and pretends to be busy with House's chart—he knows better than to hover. All he can do is glance up casually once in a while, and pray he doesn't see House on the floor.

Somehow, House manages the task. By the time he's fastening his belt buckle, his hands are trembling and he's breathing like he's run a mile, but he even limps the four steps necessary to retrieve his cane.

Wilson watches covertly as House lowers himself to sit on the edge of the recliner. He gives him a couple of minutes to catch his breath before he asks, "How's the leg?"

"It's…good. It's really good." He looks at Wilson. "The rest of me… not so hot." He admits this grudgingly, but at least he admits it.

"You've been in bed for two days. You haven't eaten. You're heavily medicated. Give it time." Wilson tries to make the words soothing, but not solicitous.

"You went to med school for _that_? _Steve_ could've figured that out!"

Cuddy picks this opportune moment to appear—with a wheelchair. House eyes it distastefully, says, "That is _so_ not happening."

Cuddy shrugs at Wilson, mouths, _'Let him go.'_

Wilson finishes putting his shoes on, pretends not to notice House leaning far too heavily on his cane after just a few steps, pretends not to see the hand holding the cane tremble on the grip. _How the hell is he gonna pull this off?_

Cuddy says quickly, "I'm really sorry you…mmm… _twisted your ankle_ on that uneven entrance at the elevator, House—please don't sue us. I've been meaning to have Maintenance take a look at it, find out why the car doesn't stop flush with the floor; guess it must've slipped my mind. Just tell anyone you see on the way out that it's my fault."

House doesn't look at either one of them as he stands there a few moments more before lowering himself into the chair. When he looks up at Cuddy, he meets her eyes and nods once, slowly, approvingly.

---

When they reach the parking lot, House stands. He appears to be scanning the lot. Cuddy says to Wilson, "I'll stop by later to check on you." Wilson nods, and she turns to go back into the building with the chair.

House appears to Wilson to be… somewhere else. His eyes are focused on something distant, something… not pleasant.

"House, c'mon, time to go home." He watches as House shakes his head sharply and refocuses on the present.

Wilson hides his concern; he knows that the past two days have awakened sleeping demons for House, and he knows that House will have to battle them alone.

He senses also that fatigue and weakness have, for now, stripped House of that infamous protective wall of his. So he does the only thing a good friend can do. He places a gentle hand on House's shoulder, ignores the small roll of that shoulder as House tries--not very hard--to shrug off the hand, says "It's been a long weekend--let's blow this popsicle stand."

And then, without seeming to lead at all (because he cannot strip away his friend's dignity, too), he gently guides House out into the rain, towards the car—towards home.


End file.
